


Blue Water and Silver Eyes

by 1MissMolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Kidnapping, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Murder, Pirates, Slow Build, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29389272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MissMolly/pseuds/1MissMolly
Summary: “John, why are we here?”Angrily, John answered, “I’m here to get a leg over.”“Why?”“Why?! Why?! Because I bloody want to!”“John, we need to discover who wants to kidnap me and why.” Sherlock said.“No, we don’t. We don’t need to do anything . . . together.” John said as he quickly scanned the room.“Together? Are you worried about what she implied?” Sherlock asked.“Implied? She down right accused me of using you for sex.” John growled. He glanced around to see if anyone overheard them.Sherlock looked confused. “Is that a bad thing?”The king has threatened to execute Mycroft. Mycroft is fighting to bring peace and order to England. He needs his brother to help him. He needs his brother to do as he is told in order to save England.What does Sherlock do when called to help his older brother? He becomes a pirate.
Relationships: James Sholto/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 58
Kudos: 19





	1. Bridgetown Barbados

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a historian so there will be inaccuracies in this story. Please suspend your disbelief and enjoy. Also there are descriptions drug use, torture and murder in this story. I will try to warn you of anything specific with each chapter but be warned.
> 
> Also I do not own any of these characters. The name of sailors of John's crew are from the Two Two One Bravo Baker universe. An outstanding story to read.

_“Mycroft Holmes is a traitor.”_

Or at least that is what King James II said to his counselors. “The man is a traitor to the crown and the country. I want him dead!” 

The years preceding James II reign had been violent and bloody. There had been a civil war and the beheading of a king. Oliver Cromwell became the Lord Protector and drew not only England but Scotland and Ireland into the blood bath. With the failure of the Republic and an end to the Interregnum, Charles and James Stuart returned. With his trusted advisor, Lord Siger Holmes at his side, Charles Stuart was crowned King Charles II.

Mycroft Holmes power started with his father, Siger Holmes. Mycroft was born the year after Charles II and his brother James had returned to England. Siger had worked hard to return the monarchy to England. He was proud to have aided Charles and James’ return.

Years later, Siger Holmes had pushed for the king’s niece, James’ daughter, Mary, to marry her cousin, William of Orange. Mary was only fifteen. Mycroft had grown up with Mary and after she was married, Mycroft traveled with her back to the Netherlands and stayed with her for a year as a confidant. Although he was only a year older than Mary, she grew to rely on his judgement and wisdom.

“Mycroft Holmes is a threat to England!” James shouted at his counsel. “I want him dead!”

“Sir, ah – that would be unwise.”

This of course gave King James more reason to despise Mycroft Holmes and wish for his head on a pike before London’s gate.

When Charles II died in 1685, both Siger and Mycroft Holmes regretfully stood beside James as the crown was set on his head. Siger died within months of James’ coronation. And it wasn’t long before James’ paranoia and instability became evident. He pushed trusted advisors of his brother away and listened to avaricious, self-indulgent men instead. Bitterness between religious fractions grew and political fights broke out.

When James dissolved the Parliament, Mycroft stood up against him. Mycroft backed the Tories who were resisting the King’s orders.. That had been the final straw and James’ labeled Mycroft a traitor. Arrests of prominent members of the Parliament and orders for execution went out. 

His more prudent and thoughtful advisors recommended that it would be reckless to even threaten to execute Mycroft Holmes. They advised the king that although Holmes was very powerful and had influence over many important people within the king’s realm, he had no ambition to sit on the throne himself. Executing him would only throw the country into another civil war.

Therefore, Mycroft Holmes along with a dozen more were banished from England. Because of Mycroft’s power and support, he was not transported as a prisoner but as a private citizen to the colonies in the west. Mycroft and his sixteen-year-old brother were sent to the British colony of Bridgetown Barbados one year after James took the throne.

That was three years ago and King James has fled England. William and Mary were crowned king and queen. Then the letter had arrived in Bridgetown – written by Mary herself, for Mycroft. He was once again needed by her. She wished for his counsel and wanted to make him an advisor to herself and her husband. Mary astutely realized that her husband’s nationality, Dutch, made him questionable as an English king.

~~

“I refuse!” Sherlock growled at Mycroft. “You can’t make me!”

“Sherlock don’t be so childish. I have explained to you that England is too dangerous for you to return to.” Mycroft said as he stood at his desk. He was not looking at his nineteen-year-old brother but at the report from England in his hand. He finished reading it and set it with other inside his leather valise.

“You can’t make me stay here. I want to return to London!” Sherlock pressed.

“No it is not safe. King James is on the continent. There are groups working to return him back to the throne. Lists of targets for assassination have been made.”

“Who would want to assassinate me?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Not you, dear brother. Me. I’m on the assassin’s list.”

“Then there is no reason why I should not be allowed to return to England with you.” Sherlock sneered.

“Absolute not. You could be targeted to be used against me. And I would have thought you would show some sign of brotherly concern that I’m a target for a bullet.”

Sherlock flopped into a chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Idiotic.”

“How so?” Mycroft picked up another missive and started to read it.

“Anyone with a brain would know you wouldn’t be bothered by my demise.”

Without acknowledging Sherlock with a glance, Mycroft said. “Dear brother, I worry for you constantly.”

“Liar.”

Mycroft set the letter aside and picked up a third. “Regardless of how you wish to portray the situation, you are to remain here in the safety of the islands. When Mary and William’s reign is insured, I will make arrangements for you to return.”

“And how long will that be?” Sherlock asked.

“Maybe five or six years.”

“Unacceptable!” Sherlock shot out of seat and glared at his brother. “I want to be in London now. My studies are stifled here. I need to be there!”

Mycroft finally turned and looked at his brother. “You need to be here, where I know where you are. It has been decided. And before you think you can just sneak off after I leave tomorrow, I have spoken to the governor. You will not receive a letter of transit to leave the island legal. If you are caught anywhere between here and Portsmouth you will be arrested and imprisoned. And don’t believe I will be quick to retrieve you from there.”

Sherlock glared at his older brother. He had been dragged from his studies in England three years ago and banished to this island with Mycroft. Now when Mycroft is allowed to return, Sherlock was expected to remain in Barbados for an indefinite period. It was awful – hateful. He wouldn’t do it. He refused! Now he just needed to figure out how to leave.

“This isn’t over, Mycroft. I refuse to stay here.”

“You can do and say whatever you like, dear brother, but you will do it here in Bridgetown under the supervision of the governor. Now go to bed. I need to concentrate on my packing before I leave on the morning tide.”

Sherlock hated it when his brother dismissed him like a child. He was no longer a child. He started to storm out of the room when his brother interrupted him.

“By the way, because of the threat I’ve had guards placed around the house. Do not go outside. I would regret if you were mistaken for an assassin and shot.” Again Mycroft’s attention was on the paper in hand and not on Sherlock.

Sherlock growled. The implication was obvious. The guards were there as much to keep killers out as they were to keep him in.

Sherlock rush up the stairs to his bedroom. It was a warm night and the doors leading out to the balcony that surrounded the second level of the house were open. A breeze off the ocean was coming through the sheer curtains. Sherlock went and stood by the door and looked out. He could hear the guard walking slowly on the porch below. His heavy boots thudding on the wooden boards.

Sherlock was supposed to meet Wiggins in town tonight. Wiggins had acquired a sample of Cannabis sativa that had unusual properties. Sherlock needed the sample for his experiments on pharmacology.

Sherlock noticed the man had stopped pacing on the porch beneath him. He could smell cigarette smoke lofting up and carried in on the breeze. Sherlock smiled. The man was distracted. Sherlock picked up the ornate vase that the ridiculous housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, kept bring into his room with flowers.

“Something to bright up you day.” She would sing as she messed up his work scooting it out of the way for the vase.

He pulled the flowers from the vase and dropped them on the floor. Then he poured the water out on top of them.

 _‘If Mrs. Hudson finds them so cheery, let her clean them up.’_ He thought.

Silently, he walked out the open door and onto the balcony. A large oak tree grew close to the house. The broad limbs and leaves giving shade to the house from the heat. It was a warm night but the moon was nigh. It was so dark that Sherlock could barely see more than a few feet in front of him. Carefully he crawled up on to the railing and reached out for closest limb. He had to do this one handed since he still held the vase in his other hand. If he missed, he would crash to the ground, right in front of the guard – probably with a broken bone or two.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaped. His hand grabbed the branch, the bark cut into his skin, stinging. He swung himself over until his feet touched another limb.

Taking a moment to slow his racing heart, Sherlock listened. The man smoking his cigarette hadn’t moved from the porch below. He heard the soft footfall of another guard walking around the corner of the house. There was a soft whistle and the smoking guard waved back. Now was the best moment.

Sherlock threw the vase back at his bedroom window. His aim was perfect. The window shattered as well as the vase. In the quiet of the evening, the noise was piercing. The men were moving instantly.

“UPSTAIRS!” One shouted.

There was sound of running boots and the crash of doors leading inside the house. Sherlock smiled and quickly climbed down out of the tree. He was on the ground and running towards the woods as oil lamps came out on the balcony.

“SHERLOCK!” Mycroft’s voice boomed across the inky night. Sherlock smile grew.

~~

Sherlock walked down the hill towards the sea instead of following the road to town. He knew Mycroft would have his men quickly rushing to Bridgetown to look for him. Once Sherlock made it to the beach, the young man walked along the sand and towards the lights and sounds of Bridgetown.

Bridgetown was not London but it was the largest town on the island. It was mixture of cultures. English, French, Spanish and Creole. The town smelled of rich spices and sea. The heavy perfume of the tropical flowers mixed with pong of unwashed sailors.

Several of the streets were paved with cobblestones but most were still hard packed earth. The buildings that lined either side of the streets were a combination of brick and stucco. Some had thatched roofs while others had wooden shingles. There were no pavements or sidewalks. Pedestrians dodged carts and horses as well as other pedestrians.

It was a noisy and vibrant town. Never quite asleep. Ships crowded its harbor and goods loaded and unloaded daily.

Sherlock walked between the piles of cargo that were stacked along the docks. The music and noise coming from the various taverns was raucous. Women whose company could be bought for a few coins were leaning out of upstairs windows, inviting sailors in.

“There’s a pretty one,” a woman with vivid red hair shouted down. “Walks like he needs good yanking!” She cackled and other women joined in.

Sherlock didn’t acknowledge them but kept walking to the place that Wiggins said he would be.

“Holmes” A horse whisper called out. Sherlock glanced up to see Wiggins leaning against bales of cotton.

Wiggins was younger than Sherlock by two years but looked much older. He had been the illegitimate son of one of the prostitutes along the quay. When he was seven, he was kicked out of the brothel and he had been living on the streets of Bridgetown ever since. His face was always dirty and his hair appeared to be blonde but was never clean. He had hazel eyes but after a fight with a club, one eye never tracked as well as the other.

“Wiggins, do you have it?”

“No, got someth’n betters. An invite to Tandoor’s.”

Tandoor’s was the squat building at the end of the quay. It’s windows were always shuttered and a red light hung by the front door. Sherlock had heard rumors about the place. It wasn’t a tavern or inn. It was an opium den. He had never been inside but wanted to go.

“How much is he going to charge us?” Sherlock asked. Tandoor was not a generous man.

“I did’s some run’n for ‘im earlier today. He owes me. Said one pipe and I could bring a friend.” Wiggins said as he pushed himself off the bales and walked to the door of Tandoor’s.

A big bury man who towered over the two young men stood guard at the door. The guard’s face and thick arms were tattooed with swirls and lines drawn in black ink. The tattoo on his face was a symmetrical mask that made the man look demonic.

“What do ya want.” His accent was heavy West Indies. Deep and round. Felt as much as heard.

“Tandoor said it was okay.” Wiggins said, ducking his head and avoiding the man’s eyes.

“Did ‘e now.”

“Ask him.” Wiggins said.

“No.” The guard smiled down at the two young men. His teeth were discolored and his gums were swollen. “Get out of ‘ere.”

“Either tell him we are here or I will tell him you have picked up an addiction to the opium. In two to three months you won’t be able to work as his bouncer anymore. He will get rid of you now and find another ogre to stand guard and you will no longer have unfettered access your favorite diversion.” Sherlock stared the larger brute down.

The guard was big enough and strong enough to break Sherlock in two if he choose to do so. But something about the certainty of Sherlock’s comments scared the man.

“I don’t know wha’cha talking about.” He said without much authority behind the words.

“The pupils of your eye show that you are under the influence of some drug. In this light they should be wide and open. Yours are constricted and fixed. Also there is slight twitch in the left hand. You are right hand dominate so you are doing it unconsciously. You could be high from the atmosphere of the opium den. Some kind of secondhand intoxication, but you are not in the building. You are outside in the fresh air. Also your fingernails show the staining of an opium pipe. Tandoor, knowing the side effects of repeated opium intoxication would not allow his bouncer to routinely part take in the oil of the poppy therefore you are doing it without his knowledge or consent.”

The guard’s face paled under his tattoos. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at the two men. He grabbed Wiggins and Sherlock by the shoulder and pushed them through the door and into the opium den.

Tandoor was a thin man with oily black hair. He was sallow skinned and narrowed face. He was the offspring of a British father and a Southeast Asian mother, therefore never accepted by either culture.

“I was afraid I would see you tonight Wiggins.” His voice was as oily as his hair. “I didn’t warn Quigby about you.”

“Yea, you said it would okay if I brought a friend.”

“And so I did, so I did. Who is this young man?” Tandoor’s eyes glanced over Sherlock’s frame salaciously. As if Sherlock was naked and up for sale to the highest bidder.

“Shaz.” Sherlock said unfazed.

“Shaz?” Tandoor smiled and showed he was missing most of his upper teeth. “Welcome. I have a bed already waiting for you.”

Tandoor waved his hand and a small oriental woman came forward. She was dressed in a silk robe that was once quite beautiful but now was soiled and worn. She bowed and waved the two young men to follow her. She led them through the building. Various areas were cordoned off with sheer drapes. Sherlock could see the people laying on pillows and pallets behind the curtains. The atmosphere was heavy with bittersweet smell of burning opium. It made Sherlock’s mouth water.

The woman pulled back a drape and waved the two boys in. There on the floor was several pillows and small lit brazier. Wiggins and Sherlock sank into the pillows as a second woman approached with a single pipe. She handed to the first woman who knelt between the two boys. She offered the pipe to Sherlock then mimicked lighting the pipe using the flame from the small fire.

Sherlock did what she showed him. He sucked in the first wave of heated air and smoke. He coughed.

Wiggins laughed and said, “Ha – ‘and it over, Shaz.”

Sherlock took another quick hit off the pipe and handed it to Wiggins. The younger boy sucked in a lung full of smoke and coughed more violently than Sherlock. Sherlock took the pipe back and tried again.

The oriental woman smiled and slowly rose. She silently backed out of the area, letting the curtains fall into place and conceal the two away.

Sherlock breathed in the smoke and tried to focus on any physical changes he felt. Wiggins took the pipe back and laid down smoking it. Sherlock laid his head down the pillows and closed his eyes. He couldn’t exactly say he felt different at first. His lungs burned from the smoke and his throat felt raw. Then he noticed a slight tingling to his lips. A lightness to his limbs.

He took the pipe back and took another mouthful of smoke. It was easier now to hold the smoke in his lungs longer. He breathed in deeply.

Sherlock’s mind began to get fuzzy. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing. His body felt so light and relaxed. He couldn’t keep a single idea trapped in his head. All sound seemed to fade into the recesses. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Loud and rhythmic and steady.

He should open his eyes but it seemed too difficult to do. All he wanted to do was lay back and let the warm blanket of oblivion pull over him.

~~

The burly guard from the front door easily picked Sherlock up off the pillows. He threw the young man over his shoulder and carried him out the back door of the opium den. In the alley, Tandoor was speaking to the driver of the cab.

“As promised – Sherlock Holmes.” Tandoor smiled his toothless smile.

“As promised,” the driver said and tossed a small bag of silver coins down to Tandoor. There was more money in that bag than Tandoor would make in a week of selling opium tar.

“If there is anything else I could do for you, Captain Hope?” Tandoor’s eyes were fixed on the bag of silver.

“Kill his friend. We don’t need witnesses.”

Tandoor looked up with the same slimy smile as before. “Of course.”


	2. Vengeance

Sherlock woke up in pain. His head was pounding and his mouth was incredibly dry.

He wasn’t sure where he was. He was sure it wasn’t his own bed. Or any where else in Mycroft’s house. The wooden floor he was sprawled on was damp and mildewy. He could smell the sea but also rot and urine. It stunk. The world seemed to be tilting to and fro. It made his stomach queasy. Sherlock struggled to his hands and knees, still unable to open his eyes.

“You’re finally awake. The captain be ‘appy to ‘ear that.”

Sherlock didn’t know the voice. It was a young boy – maybe ten, maybe younger. He lifted his head and a searing white pain bloomed in his skull. He groaned and fell to the side. Landing in the seating position, Sherlock finally opened his eyes and tried to focus on the owner of the voice.

He was right. It was a child no older than ten. The young boy was laughing at him.

“You got a snoot full, didn’t cha?”

“No I did not get a snoot full since I do not possess a snoot.”

“Whaaaat?” the boy’s eyebrows rose up into his dirty fringe. He took one more look at Sherlock then took off running – shouting as he went.

“CAPTAIN! He’s awake!”

Sherlock winced at the noise the boy was making. His mouth was so dry he didn’t know how he was able to speak. He felt nauseous and wished the world would stop shifting and rowing.

He leaned back against a wooden wall and felt the cool damp surface. Somewhere in the back of his mind, synapsis started to connect and fire. _‘Cool and damp. The smell of mildew and the sea. The floor is moving. Wooden walls. Wooden floor. The calling for Captain. A ship. Not clean enough to be royal navy. No cargo in the hold. Not a merchant ship. Pirates.’_

Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard the sound of approaching boots. Two men and the boy. Sherlock tried to stand but it was far too difficult to do. He wondered if it was the result of the opium or something else. It had to be something else. He glanced around and he was alone. Wiggins was not there.

“Looky, looky, sleep’n beauty is finally awake.” The voice was definitely English. Maybe Liverpool.

Sherlock’s attention shifted from one man to the next. One tall, one short. Taller one younger. Left-handed based on the position of the grip of his pistol. Shorter one older. White hair and grizzled beard. Wire-framed glasses. Yellow skin. Liver disease. Doesn’t have long to live.

“Captain.” Sherlock nodded his head.

“Captain Jefferson Hope, Mister Holmes.” The older man said. “This is my ship, the Vengeance.”

The fact the man knew who Sherlock was meant that his kidnapping had not been random. That made the situation that more dangerous for him. Sherlock struggled to his feet, digging his fingernails into the swollen boards of the bulkhead. His bare feet sliding on the slick deck.

“Could I burden you for a drink of water.” Sherlock said as politely as he could.

Jefferson Hope laughed at him. “Not enjoying the effects of a night in an opium den, are you?”

“I believe it was what ever you had added to the opium that is causing my discomfort right now.” Sherlock groaned as he stood up straight.

“Yeah, that stuff can be a right bitch when you wake up. Tommy, get the man a drink of water.”

The small boy rushed off while the captain continued.

“So you know where you are?”

“I know I’m on your ship and we are presently sailing away from Barbados but other than that, I have no idea where I am?

Hope looked Sherlock over carefully, then said. “I’ve been paid to deliver you to Port Royal. Some one thinks your worth a thousand crowns. But if you ask me you are worth a piss.”

“We’re sailing west to Jamaica?” Sherlock asked.

Tommy, the small boy, returned with a bucket of water and a ladle. He handed the ladle to Sherlock who dropped it and grabbed the bucket. Sherlock held it up to his lips and took a great big gulp. Water slid down the sides of Sherlock’s face and splashed across his chest.

“We’re sailing towards Roseau on the Isle of Dominica for supplies. Like more drinking water.” Hope waved his hand and the other man grabbed the bucket away. Sherlock was panting having drank so much water.

“Who is paying you?” Sherlock asked.

“Not telling.”

“I can pay you more.” Sherlock said.

Jefferson Hope smiled. “I doubt that. Besides, the man I’m dealing with is someone I don’t want angry with me.”

The water had helped. Sherlock’s head was clearing. “Can you tell me why he wants me?”

“Not my business.” Hope said. “I’m going to let you have free movement on board, but don’t be stupid. As soon as we are with sight of land, you’ll be put into irons. If you try to escape now, the sharks will have you. If you try to do anything to my ship, I’ll shoot you.”

“You won’t collect your thousand pounds if I’m dead.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you. The reward is dead or alive.”

~~

It took them a day and a half to reach Roseau. The town was a low flat stretch of land jutting out into the ocean from the island. A quaint town of squat houses and buildings. The docks were built out into the water. Mostly small fishing boats crowded the moorings. On the southernmost dock was moored the Vengeance. Tied for and aft to docks.

Barrels of fresh water were being rolled up the gang planks onto the ship’s decks, as well as barrels of hard tack and salted meats.

Jefferson Hope stood on the wheel deck and watched as the cargo was loaded. Beside him stood Sherlock. Ankles and wrists in iron shackles. Sherlock was carrying around an extra fifty pounds of weight.

Hope was making sure all the barrels of supplies he had paid for were being loaded while Sherlock was looking at the town. It was clean town and appeared to be relatively respectable. He knew if he waited until they reached Port Royal, he wouldn’t have a chance at escape at all. Port Royal was a pirate haven and no one there would be willing to help him at all. And with the supplies being loaded on, Hope wouldn’t need to stop again until they reached Jamaica. This was Sherlock’s only chance.

He glanced down at the gang plank. Hope had placed two guards on the dock and another two on the ship. There was no way Sherlock was going to be able to rush down the gang plank and on to the quay and not be stopped. His other option was to jump overboard and try to swim to the opposite dock or to the quay.

He glanced at the water. It had to deep enough to allow the big ship to dock here. He tried to determine the distance he needed to swim. At least two hundred feet – maybe more. If Sherlock weren’t shackled he knew he could do it, but with the extra weight and limitation of moment he wasn’t sure.

“That’s it captain.” The man on the dock shouted up at Hope.

“All aboard. Cast off and make sail.” Hope shouted.

The men on the dock scrambled up the gangplanks and pulled them on board. Other men rushed up the shrouds and across the arms of the masts. The canvas started to unfurl and billow out with the trade winds. The ship started to move slowly out from the dock and into the blue sea.

Sherlock hesitated once, then took off hobbling. With the ankle chains it was difficult to leap up on to the railing. Instead he hooked his hip on the railing then ungracefully tipped over and fell into the water.

He had miscalculated. The chains and shackles weighed more than he realized. He kicked hard and felt the metal bite into the skin of his ankles. He tried to move his arms to pull himself up but he could barely pull them away from his body. By the time he reached the surface, he was almost out of oxygen. His lungs were burning. He gasped as his head broke through the glassy ceiling of water.

Sherlock paused for a moment, watching as the Vengeance sailed away. The Captain Hope, on the wheel deck, shouting and waving his arms. Sherlock notice the ship was suddenly in disarray. Some of the sailors were trying to pull the sails back up while others were still lowering others. He noticed a long boat being moved to the side of the boat to lowered into the water. Hope was swearing and waving his arms while glancing back at Sherlock struggling in the water.

Sherlock felt himself start to go under again. He kicked as hard as he could with his restrained legs. He laid back and tried to swim backwards towards the dock. Only using his legs since his arms and hands were useless chained together. The chains were weighing him down. He was quickly tiring. Sherlock knew he couldn’t stop or he would drown.

He sunk lower in the water as his legs grew weak. Water washed over his head once then twice. He coughed as he swallowed a mouth full. Struggling again to swim on, his strength finally gave out. He fought and fought, but the chains pulled him under the water.

There was a ringing in his ears and pressure on his lungs. He needed air but he couldn’t reach the surface. Everything became grey then black.


	3. Roseau

John Watson woke up with a splitting headache. He was laying on a bed with blonde prostitute beside him. Her naked body plastered next to his. He was sticky and sweaty and certain he was two steps towards the grave.

He gave the woman a gentle push and she snorted as she rolled over to her other side. John sat up and groaned as he stretched sore muscles. He glanced at the table beside the bed and saw a tankard. He grabbed it and gave it a quick sniff before drinking the dregs inside.

The beer was stale and flat. It tasted bitter and did nothing to help John wake up. He gathered his clothes off the floor and quickly dressed. John reached into his boot and found his father’s watch that he hid there. His fingers rubbed over the gold surface and he wounded it carefully. He knew he needed to be out of the room before the harlot woke up. Leaving a few coins on the table next to the empty tankard, John left and went downstairs.

John Watson and his crew had rowed into the harbor of Roseau the night before. Their ship, the Mary Morstan, was anchored out, a hundred yards from the docks. They had come ashore to celebrate several good hauls and the share their wealth with the local whores.

John stumbled down the stairs and into the main room of the bar. Several of his men were sleeping on the tables and in chairs. His first mate, James Sholto, was curled up in the corner with a male prostitute wrapped in his arms. John tapped James’ boot and the man grunted awake.

“Wha’cha.”

“Time to go. Get the men to the boat.” John said softly to not wake up too many of the employees of the brothel.

James shrugged the young man off him and pulled himself to his feet. He and John moved amongst the men sleeping, waking the crew members who were still there.

Many of the Morstan’s crew had left the night before, preferring to sleep on board ship and less likely to have their belongs robbed from them. John and only a handful of men had remained on shore. John was already untying the long boat from the dock when the rest of his crew arrived.

The men had started to row the boat out and towards their ship when they hear shouting from the only masted ship in the narrow harbor.

“Look!” George Blackwood shouted.

John watched as a man leapt from the railing into the water. It took several seconds before the man broke the surface and then tried to swim to the docks.

“He’s wear leg irons.” James Sholto said.

John looked and saw the man’s hands were also manacled. The man was trying to swim in shackles. John knew he wasn’t going to make it. He grabbed the end of a rope and kicked off his boots.

“Pull hard when you feel me jerk on the line!” John shouted as he jumped into the water.

The men in the small boat were surprised by their captain’s actions. For a moment they sat still at the oars. Then James shouted.

“You heard the bastard. Row towards them and when we feel the captain tug on the rope – PULL!”

The small boat turned and the four men on the oars rowed as hard as they could. James grabbed the end of the rope and watched as it played out as John swam away from them.

John swam as hard as he could. He knew the other man wouldn’t make it to safety before he ran out of strength. He skimmed along the surface as his eyes kept track of the drowning man. When he noticed the man go under and not resurface, John dove under the water.

The water in the harbor was clear and John could easily see the bottom. It was littered with broken carts and abandoned crates. Jagged debris was spread across the sandy floor. If the drowning man got tangled in that mess, John would never be able to drag him out. He could get caught too and drown with the stranger.

John kicked hard and swam towards the other man. He could see the stranger slowly sinking into the broken boxes and metal frames. The iron chain between his ankles pulling him downward while his hands were clasped close to his body. The man dark hair waved in the current like seaweed. And his lithe form seemed more appropriate for the water than land.

John swam harder. His own lungs ached for a breath.

The stranger’s feet barely touched the edge of an abandoned crate when John reached him. John was out of air and his body wanted to push towards the surface. John forced himself to tie the rope around the stranger’s chest, under his arms. Then John tugged on the rope, wrapping his own arm around the man’s waist.

There was a moment of hesitation then the rope was yanked and suddenly John and the stranger were being snatched out of the water. Within seconds they broke the surface and skidded across the water. John gasped for air and got a mouthful of seawater.

His men pulled John and the stranger to their boat. Across the harbor, men in another long boat were shouting and waving their arms. John grabbed the side of his boat as James and George Blackwood hauled the lifeless stranger on board. John swung his leg over the gunwale and fell on top of the man’s body.

“He’s not breathing.” James said.

John pulled himself up to the hands and knees and bent over the still man. He listened to the man’s chest then punched him as hard as he could in the man’s solar plexus. The stranger spewed water out.

John rolled him on his side and punched him again in the diaphragm. The stranger coughed again and more water came out then he took a loud deep gasping breath. John nearly collapsed on top of the man.

“I’ll pay you a thousand pounds to take me to England.” It was a horse whisper but John and his crew heard it.

“What?” John asked looking down into the stranger’s face.

The stranger’s eyes were still closed and he looked for all the world dead.

“Two thousand pounds – sterling.” The stranger said. He opened his eyes and stared up into John’s. They were the most remarkable color that John had ever seen.

John sat up. “Well, boys, you heard the man. Let’s make sail for England.”

Just then the men in the other long boat fired a musket at John and his crew.

“Bloody hell!” growled Blackwood. “Permission to . . .”

“Granted!” Shouted John.

Blackwood aimed his musket and fired. The bullet fell short of the approaching boat but still made the men duck. Blackwood quickly reloaded as Sholto fired his pistol.

“Get us back to the Morstan!” John ordered as he picked up another musket and aimed it.

He fired the same time as Blackwood. Both rounds hit the small wooden boat. One of the men in the boat leaped out and into the water. Another man shouted and cursed.

John smiled when he noticed that the rounds had made a small hole at the water line.

McMath, Cullen, Henn and Barr were rowing hard and propelling the small boat closer to the Morstan.

John shouted at his ship, “Make way to sail!”

The crew on the Morstan scrambled to get their ship underway while John was being chased by the men by the other small boat that was slowly sinking.

A man in the other boat waved his arms and shouted. “He is mine! Give him back!”

John and Blackwood had reloaded their muskets and fired again. They were too far away from their pursuers to do any good, but it caused the other men to flinch and slow down on their oars. John looked up at his ship and saw the sails were already set and the trade wind was filling them. The anchor chain was being pulled from the water and the boat was slowly pulling away.

John noticed the other masted ship that had left the harbor not ten minutes earlier was trying to turn around and return. It was going to cross paths with the Morstan.

Ropes were being tossed down to the small boat. Blackwood caught the rope and tied it off. The men aboard the Morstan quickly pulled the small boat alongside. Blackwood scrambled up the side as other ropes were lowered to haul the boat aboard.

“Fire a round across their bow.” John ordered.

The message was repeated across the ship and seconds later the gun ports on the lower deck were open and a single cannon was rolled into position. Just as the smaller boat was pulled up and onto the deck, the ship rocked to the side with the shot.

The other ship was in complete disarray. Some of it’s sails were up, some were down and some were tangled in the rigging. The Morstan sailed right across its path, crossing the T. If the Morstan fired again, the ship would be at her mercy.

John stood on the deck and watched as the other ship swung around and back into Roseau’s docks. The men in the long boat that had been chasing them were now in the water and their small boat had sunk. The crew of the Morstan laughed and jeered at the other crew. John slapped James on the back and smiled.

“Hell’va way to start a day.” He laughed.

John turned and walked up to the stranger laying on the deck still wrapped in his chains.

“So who are you and why did have you as a prisoner?”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m in the dark as much as you are.”


	4. Lestrade

Mycroft Holmes glared at the man from Government House. It had been three days since Sherlock had leapt out of the tree and disappeared into the forest surrounding the Holmes estate.

“We have searched the whole island, Lord Holmes. There is no sign of your brother.”

“What about this place,” Mycroft looked down at the report but he already knew the name of the opium den. “Tandoor’s? Have you searched it and questioned the employees?”

“It was searched after we received news that your brother was seen entering the building. There was no trace of him. One of the women who worked there said he was there that night and with another man. She had set up a pipe for the two of them to share.” Mycroft forced himself to remain unreadable as the information of Sherlock’s drug use became common knowledge around the island. “When she returned to check on them, they were both gone.”

“I want to speak to her myself.” Mycroft demanded.

“I am sorry sir, that won’t be possible. She disappeared after speaking to us. Her body was found in an ally just off the main road by the docks.” The government man leaned forward and whispered. “Throat slit. She was oriental, you know.”

Mycroft glowered wonder how someone’s ethnicity determined how they would be murdered.

Mycroft had held up returning to England for three days. In a week it would be impossible to reach London by the time the Queen had requested him to return. He needed to find his brother and sail immediately.

There was a knock and Mycroft’s butler entered the room. “Lord Holmes, there is a Captain Lestrade of his majesty’s royal navy, here to see you.”

“Send him in.” Mycroft waved the government man away. He stood as Captain Gregory Lestrade entered.

The captain was indeterminate age. Anywhere between thirty-five and sixty with his premature grey hair. He was handsome and tanned. His eyes were a soft brown. He was dressed in his formal attire with polished brass buttons and bright ribbons across his chest. He held his bicorn hat with its gold tassels pinned under his arm to his body.

“Captain Lestrade, do you have any news about my brother.”

“Lord Holmes, I regret . . .” He hesitated and glanced sideways at the other man. “Sir, I regret to tell you that a body has washed ashore. A young man. His throat had been slit.”

The air in the room seemed to evaporate. Mycroft collapsed into his chair.

“Is it Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was brittle.

“I do not know. I do not believe so, but if you could please come and look at the body to verify that it is not your brother.”

Mycroft felt a stone take up residence in his stomach. He slowly stood up and fumbled with his waist coat.

“Of course, captain. Let’s make haste.” He felt dizzy and wanted to sit back down. Mycroft reached out and rested his fingertips on the top of his desk to steady himself.

The government man looked as if he wanted to flee. “I’ll . . . ah . . . return to the Governor’s office.”

“No.” Mycroft said firmly, regaining control. “You will accompany us. I will not have it spread across the island that Sherlock is dead. Not yet.”

The government man paled slightly. The idea of being accused of being a gossip was only slightly better than seeing a dead bloated body. Both things he wanted to avoid.

“But Lord Holmes, the governor . . .” the man stumbled over the words.

“Will wait.” Mycroft announced. He pulled himself together and walked around the desk. “Captain Lestrade, if you will please.”

Lestrade nodded his head and marched out with Mycroft at his side and the government man following meekly behind.

~~

The body was in one of the warehouses down by the docks. The body had begun to rot in the warm weather. The smell was almost a physical barrier. An invisible wall preventing the men from approaching. Flies were black on the body and the room hummed with them.

Mycroft held a handkerchief to his nose and mouth as he slowly walked closer. Lestrade waved his hat over the face and a wave of black flies flew away, exposing the grotesque remains.

Mycroft knew instantly it wasn’t Sherlock. The dead man’s hair was blond. The lips of the corpse were pulled back in a grimace and showed several teeth were missing.

“It’s not Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice crackled in the room.

“We didn’t think so. Do you know who he might be, Mister Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

“Sherlock had an acquaintance – a street urchin. Someone named Wiggins. I never met him. But I was told he was blond.”

“Witnesses said they saw your brother and Wiggins together the night he disappeared.”

“Yes, Wiggins was younger than Sherlock and was responsible for some of Sherlock’s more destructive behavior.”

Mycroft took one look at the body and turned to leave. The government man was outside the warehouse. He was bent over at the waist and vomiting. He had barely entered the building before he had to flee from the smell and the sight.

“Tell the governor that Sherlock is still missing and in grave danger. That wretched soul is not my brother but probably someone named Wiggins.” Mycroft announced.

“Are you sure, Lord Holmes?” the sick man asked.

“Yes. Sherlock is alive and in danger. I know it. We must find him.”

Mycroft immediately walked off leaving the government man still bent over and puking. Mycroft walked swiftly to his carriage when he heard Lestrade clear his throat behind him.

“Mister Holmes, I still have questions to ask of you.” Lestrade said.

“Let me assist you. I can easily guess at what you want to ask me. No, I do not believe that Sherlock is responsible for Wiggins murder. No, I do not believe that Sherlock willing went with whom ever took him. No, I do not believe Sherlock is actively involved in his kidnapping. Does that make it simpler for you. You have one job now and only one job. Find my brother.”

“Where should I start to look?” Lestrade asked condescendingly.

Mycroft paused at the man’s attitude. He glanced out at the ocean then said. “He is obviously not here on the island. The only reasonable assumption would be he is out there.”

“It is a vast ocean, Lord Holmes.” Lestrade said.

“Whoever took Sherlock, needed him for a reason. They will keep him alive for that reason. If my brother is alive, then somewhere, somehow he is annoying someone. People will talk. They always do. There will be information.”

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably as he looked out over the sea. Mycroft noticed the captain’s discomfort.

“There is some information. What have you heard? Where?”

Lestrade hesitated then said, “Roseau, Dominica. A dark-haired man was seen jumping from one ship and being picked up by another.”

“Was it Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. Apparently he was in manacles and chains. The ship he jumped off of was captained by a man named Jefferson Hope.”

“And the ship that picked him up?” Mycroft asked.

“The Mary Morstan. The captain is John Watson.”

“Do you know this John Watson?”

“He was ship’s surgeon in his majesty’s navy. He was on the Maywand when it sunk off the coast of the Azores. Attacked by the Dutch about four years ago. He saved another officer and five crew men. Dragged them to the only lifeboat. Rowed it to safety all by himself. Everyone else on the Maywand died.”

“So Sherlock could be with a British ship right now?” Hope was evident in Mycroft’s voice.

Lestrade’s cheek twitched as he winced slightly. “No. After they were rescued, the seven men were given different assignments. Different berths on different ships. They all refused. The surviving crew of the Maywand were devoted to Watson. They stole a ship out of Dover and have been pirates ever since.”

Mycroft took a moment to let the information sink in. His petulant brother with no amount of self-preservation was presently on a ship with cut-throats and murders.

Mycroft knew it was a ridiculous question but he asked it anyway. “Is Watson an honorable man?”

Lestrade took a moment to consider. “In the four years he has been outside the law, he has never attacked a British vessel. He has gone after Dutch and Spanish ships. Even the occasional French ship. He was attacked once by a British ship. Watson fought back and captured the ship. He stripped it of its cannons and all of its powder. Then broke their rudder. The crew had to bring the crippled ship into Montego Bay by rowing in with the long boats. He’s murdered Dutch, French, and Spanish sailors but not British. But he is a pirate.”

Mycroft understood the implications. His brother was safe until he challenged the pirate.

“How soon can you go after the Mary Morstan?” Mycroft asked.

“I will sail with the evening tide if that is the orders.”

Mycroft turned and looked out at the sea one more time. He wanted Sherlock back. He wanted to know he was safe. He felt responsible for whatever danger Sherlock was in now. Alone and probably fighting for his very life.

“Captain Lestrade, I have been summons back to England by the king and queen. I can wait no longer. I will leave in a day or two. As we both know the only one on this island who can order you to search for my brother is the Governor but we also both know the man is a bungling fool. Although I am unable to give you an order I do ask you – beg you to go after my brother. It is vitally important that he is returned and kept safe. Important for England and the king and queen.”

Lestrade nodded his head. He had met the Governor and that the man a buffoon.

“The Scotland will sail tonight, Lord Holmes. We will head straight away towards Port Royal.”

“Why Port Royal?” Mycroft asked.

“It is a pirates’ haven. All pirate ships eventually end up there.”


	5. Mary Morstan

Sherlock’s wet clothes clung to his body as he shivered. The heavy hammer hit the wedge sitting on top of the manacle’s lock. The vibration sent painful shockwaves up Sherlock’s arm. He winced but didn’t move. The hammer hit the wedge again and the lock broke. The chains fell away from his wrists. His hands were free.

John stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock’s forearm, turning this way and that, examining the injury to the wrist. The skin was abraded. It had started to bleed again. The stark red line of blood crossed his almost snow-white skin.

“Have Stamford come here with his kit.” John said to a young boy standing beside him.

The child took off running as the man with the heavy hammer pushed on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Get down on your bum.”

They were below decks on the Mary Mortsan. The first gun deck of two. The ceiling was low on the deck – no more than six and half feet. It was claustrophobic for Sherlock and any man over six foot two inches tall would have to be careful of the cross beams.

Sherlock glared at the man as John let go of Sherlock’s arm. “Get down,” John said softly.

Sherlock turned and looked into John’s soft blue eyes. He wondered for a moment when they had grown so soft. While on the long boat as Hope had shot at them, the captain’s eyes had been cold and hard like lapis. Now there was a warmth and calmness he had missed before.

“You need to get on the deck so he can put your leg up on the anvil.” John explained. “Tell me, why do you need to get to England?”

Sherlock gracefully knelt to the deck then swung his feet up onto the anvil. The man with hammer grabbed Sherlock’s ankle and positioned the wedge over the lock.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked looking up at John.

The man brought the hammer down and the lock broke on the first strike.

“Not really as long as you pay us.” John smiled. 

A rather pudgy man came rushing up with the child. “John?”

“Here’s your patient, doctor.” John waved at Sherlock still lying on the deck with his feet perched up on the anvil.

Mike Stamford, a roundish man with thinning brown hair, knelt down beside Sherlock. He looked at the man’s wrists and ankles. The bleeding was slight but the skin had been rubbed raw.

“Tendon damage?” Mike asked as he carefully bent Sherlock’s wrists.

Before Sherlock could answer, John spoke.

“I don’t think so. He seems to have full movement.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed up at John who was watching as Mike pressed a damp cotton bandage around the damaged skin. It stung but Sherlock didn’t make a sound or move. John’s glance switched from Mike to Sherlock’s face. The two men stared at each other for several seconds.

“Usually the patient complains about the salve.” John said staring at Sherlock. A slight smirk on his face.

“It is uncomfortable. What is it?”

“A combination of Coconut milk and sulfur.” John said.

Mike quickly wrapped dry bandages around the wet ones. “I’ll change these tomorrow. In a day or two you won’t even feel it anymore. John’s concoctions helps prevent scars too.”

“John’s?” Sherlock asked. He looked up at the captain. “Yours?”

“John Watson, captain of the Mary Morstan.” John said still staring down at Sherlock. “Welcome aboard. You want to get out of those wet clothes and into something dry. When did you eat last?”

John held out his hand and Sherlock took it. Sherlock could feel the callous on the man’s smaller hands but also the remarkable strength. John easily pulled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock towered over John by six inches but John gave no impression of fear or anxiety. He was not intimidated by Sherlock. Sherlock also noticed the men around them respected the small captain.

Facts he needed to sort and analyze. Sherlock blinked. He had questions but it was obviously the wrong time to ask them.

“Come with me. You can clean up in my cabin.”

Sherlock followed John up the steep steps and out into the sunlight. Sherlock brought his hand up to cover his eyes as the Caribbean sun glared down on the narrow deck. The Morstan was well built ship. It was different from the ship that had brought Sherlock and Mycroft out from England. The Morstan was narrower. Only twenty or twenty-five feet wide, but it had four or five decks below the main deck as well as a forecastle and a sterncastle.

The Morstan was well-organized ship. Ropes were properly stored. The decks were clean and well maintained. There were stacks of cotton bales in the middle of the deck. Neatly stacked and covered with heavy oiled canvas. There wasn’t the debris he had seen on Jefferson Hope’s ship. There wasn’t the smell of rot and decay.

“British navy?” Sherlock asked.

John laughed. “Don’t be confusing us for them. We are more free-lance.”

“Pirates?”

“One man’s pirate is another man’s entrepreneur.”

John took the stairs up to the quarter deck and opened a door. They entered a room that stretched from one side of the ship to other. It was narrow with a skylight right over a long wooden table. In the backwall of the room was another door.

“And the cotton?”

“We acquired it from another ship.” John said with slight smile to his lips.

“You stole it. Do you steal people too?”

John frowned and said, “We don’t trade in human beings. We’re pirates but we do have some self-respect.”

“And education.” Sherlock said as he followed John into a cabin. John glanced sideways at Sherlock.

“Maybe. Change in here. I’ll have Billy bring you some water and clean clothes. Although I don’t know if anyone on board is as skinny as you. Wash up but don’t get those bandages wet.”

“Yes, doctor.” Sherlock said.

John frowned for a moment, then said. “It’s captain and don’t forget it.”

He closed the door and left.

Sherlock took a moment to look around John’s cabin. It was a single room that stretched from one side of the ship to the other, just like the room next door. The back wall of the cabin were a bank of windows looking out over the stern of the ship and the sea. A wooden bench and been built under the window with a narrow door leading out to a small balcony was just outside the window. Sherlock could see several plants growing in buckets and barrels cut into two. The plants on the balcony almost blocked the view of the sea.

There was an oversized bunk built into the right-hand side of the cabin and a large table to the left with maps and charts scattered across it. In the middle of the room was a desk. There were several books stacked upon it. Sherlock stepped forward and looked at the titles. He found a book on anatomy and one on medicinal plants but to his surprise, many of them were novels.

Sherlock glanced around the room again. There were no pictures on the walls or anything to indicate who actually slept in this room. Other than the books there was nothing personal. Sherlock thought John Watson would be the sentimental type. There should be keepsakes and letters from lovers. Sherlock moved behind the desk and opened the drawers.

There were pen’s and inkwells. There were some blank sheets of paper. He opened another drawer and found a ream of paper that had been written on. He pulled out the first page and began to read. It was some kind of story or novel. Sherlock wasn’t sure. He reached for the second sheet when the door opened.

A young boy came in carrying a bucket or water and a pile of clothes. “Here, mister. Capt’n said’ bring these to you.”

Careful to not be noticed, Sherlock slipped the page he read back into the drawer and closed it. He went around the desk and took the pile of clothes. Sherlock picked up the shirt and shook it out. It was roughly his size in the shoulders and length. It was relatively clean but he could still smell the scent of the man who owned it.

“Capt’n said I was to take your clothes and wash them. The salt water will make ‘em itchy if I don’t.”

Sherlock glanced at the boy then started to pull his shirt off. “Whose clothes are these, Billy? They don’t belong to Captain Watson.”

“No, they belong to Mister McMath. He’s the gunner.”

Sherlock mind tried to place the man. He remembered the name being mentioned in the small boat as they raced away from Hope and his crew.

“McMath isn’t the tall man with the tattoos is he?”

“No, that’s Mister Blackwood, George Blackwood. McMath is a ginger.”

Sherlock remembered the man with the flaming red hair and the sprinkling of freckles across fair skin.

“Oh yes. And what can you tell me about Captain Watson?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

“The capt’n? Nothing other than he is a stickler for keep’n the place clean and makes me study my letters.”

_That explained the clean ship_. Sherlock thought. “What do you do on the ship?”

“I’m the monkey. Me and Zeb.”

“Monkey?”

“Powder monkey.” Billy said looking at Sherlock as if he was an idiot.

Sherlock quickly had his kit off and handed it over to the boy. The young boy rushed from the room leaving Sherlock alone with the bucket of water and McMath’s clothes. Sherlock dipped a flannel into the water then wiped his face with the cool water. It felt wonderful. He dipped the rag back into the water again and brought it up saturated to his face. The cool water dripped down his cheeks and onto his chest. It raised gooseflesh. He wiped his brow then down the back of his neck. He closed his eyes relishing the relief the simple act of washing up brought.

Sherlock had only been held by Hope for a day and half, but it felt so much longer. He had sweated out the opium and it made his skin stink. Also, the stress and anxiety of the situation had worn on him. He wondered where Wiggins was. He wondered if Wiggins had gone to Mycroft to tell him that he had been kidnapped.

Hope had said someone else wanted Sherlock. Hope had been paid to kidnap him. Sherlock couldn’t imagine who that could be. He couldn’t imagine it had anything to do with him directly. That only left one option – Mycroft. 

Sherlock soaked the flannel again and started to wipe it across his chest. The water skimming down his torso. He stood naked in the room and was lost in his thoughts when the door opened and John walked in.

“Here are some boots.” John was looking down at the pair of worn leather boots. He had not knocked on the door. He didn’t realize that Sherlock would be naked.

John’s eyes glanced up to see Sherlock turned threequarters away from him. His naked backside visible to anyone standing in the doorway. John’s eyes traveled down the sinewy back to Sherlock’s narrow waist then his plump and round arse. The man’s legs were long and muscular but not overly so. It was the body of a long-distance runner. Slim, powerful, and lean.

John’s mouth went dry. His stomach did a flip as a surge of want went to his groin. He forgot about the boots in his hands. His eyes moved over Sherlock’s body then back up to the surprised expression on the man’s face. Surprised then withering.

“Yes, quite obvious those are boots. Why did you bring them in here?” Sherlock’s voice cut through John’s astonishment.

“Yes, boots,” John stumbled over his words and he looked down at his hand and saw the pair there. He tossed them towards Sherlock and turned to leave. “I think they should fit you. When your done – dressed we will discuss where we need to go.”

John turned to go as Sherlock grabbed the trousers and quickly put them on.

“What do you mean ‘where we need to go’. I told you England.” Sherlock said affirmatively.

John hesitated then turned around. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed to see Sherlock’s partial dressed. Sherlock was wrestling with the cotton shirt to get it on.

“Well, where were you living before you were kidnapped?”

“Bridgetown, Barbados.”

“So we start there. We sail to Barbados and you give us the two thousand pounds. We buy supplies for the trip and then sail to England.”

Sherlock’s mind began to race. If they returned to Barbados, Mycroft would learn of it and he would take Sherlock back. Prevent him from leaving. That was the last thing he wanted.

“We can’t go to Bridgetown.” Sherlock blurted out.

“Why?” John asked.

“Because.”

John stepped closer as he suddenly became suspicious of Sherlock.

“You were living in Bridgetown weren’t you?”

“Yes, but my fortune is in England.” Sherlock said.

“How could you live in Bridgetown and not have access to your money in England?” John asked.

“It’s complicated.”

“You lied to me.”

“How dare you call me a liar! I demand you take me to England!”

John crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. “You can demand all you want but it won’t matter to me. Do you have two thousand pounds to pay me?”

“I can get it – if you give me time. If I get to England I can earn it and send it to you.”

John’s expression hardened. He glared at Sherlock. “You’ll earn it right here. If you stay on this ship you’ll work like every other seaman. Or you can jump right back into that ocean and find your own way back to England.”

“You’ll take me to England if I work as a common sailor?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“No. We are staying here in the Caribbean. And you are going to sleep and eat with the crew.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out his father’s watch. He opened it then frowned. He shook it lightly and brought it up to ear.

“Damn it! You cost me my watch!”

“How am I to be blamed for that?!” Sherlock barked back.

“I blame you because it got damaged when I jumped into the water to save your scrawny arse!”

It was the last possession he had from his father. It was the only thing he was able to save from the Maywand when it sank. He had cherished it and cared for it and now because of a foolish act to save a stranger’s life, it was broken. John could hate himself for it. Hate his innate sense of gallantry.

John tossed the watch onto the desk and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“John?” James Sholto was standing on the mid-deck and John marched out of his cabin. “What’s the orders?”

“Head to St Thomas. We’ll sell the cotton there and leave the bastard behind.”

“What? What happened to England?” James asked.

“He lied to us. He doesn’t have two cents to rub together let alone two thousand pounds.” John turned to face his friend. “He’ll sleep with the crew and work for his passage to St. Thomas. Treat him like anyone of the deckhands.”

“You’re joking? Have you looked at him? He’s not worked a hard day in his life. His hands are softer than a fish’s belly.”

John growled. He wasn’t going to pity Holmes again. “I don’t care if his pretty white hands bleed all the way to Charlotte Amalie. He works. I’m done caring about the bastard.”

James leaned back slightly. “Okay, John. Whatever you say. He sleeps with the crew and I’ll put him on the scrubbers.”

“Good.” John said. He wanted to try and fix his watch but he knew it was too late. The saltwater had ruined it. “Let’s go.”

~~

Sherlock glared at the closed door. His anger at Captain Watson grew with every replaying of the conversation in his head _. How dare the man call him a liar. A Holmes! How dare he!_

Sherlock wanted to do something petulant – childish. He glanced down at the desk with its pile of books. He wondered what Watson would say and do if he found his books thrown overboard. Well, maybe not all the books. The book on anatomy looked interesting and could help him. Amongst the books, he saw John’s gold watch. He picked it and opened the facing. The hands were not moving. The second hand was still. He tapped the face then tried to turn the pin. There was no resistance. Just as John had said, it was broken. Unconsciously, Sherlock slipped the watch into his pocket.

The door opened and James Sholto came in.

“Heard you pissed off the captain already.”

“He is being unreasonable.” Sherlock said pulling his shoulders back.

“Well that is debatable. He’s not feeding you to the sharks.” James smiled broadly. “And speaking about feeding. If you want to eat, you’ve give us a day’s worth of work and you don’t have a day to do it in.”

James grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and pulled him from John’s cabin. He shoved the young man out the door and onto the deck.

“Cullen, Barr!” James shouted. “Put this pup to the scrubbers.” He shoved Sherlock down the stairs.

Barr, a man with skin as dark as ebony and shoulders twice as wide as Sherlock’s, laughed deeply. It rumbled over the deck and curled around Sherlock’s body.

“So the gentleman is now a sea rat.”

Sherlock looked up at the man. He towered over Sherlock by several inches. Barr’s white teeth were a stark opposite to his dark skin as he smiled. Sherlock stood up straight and pulled his shoulders back to give the appearance of superiority.

“Don’t try that with me, boy. McMath has already made a bet he will pop your cherry before we make St. Croix.”

“My what?” Sherlock asked confused.

Barr’s booming laughter covered over the deck. Sherlock turned hesitantly and glanced up at the stern castle. John was standing up there leaning over the rail, watching Barr and Holmes. Barr grabbed Sherlock by the scuff of his neck and pulled him to a work crew on deck. The men were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the deck with simple brushes and buckets of water.

“To work boy!” Barr bellowed.

He pushed Sherlock down to his knees. Sherlock hesitated and glanced up to where he had last seen Watson. John was gone. Sherlock reached for one of the brushes and began to scrub the deck. 


	6. Return of the Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Jefferson Hope has not given up yet.

George Blackwood was a tall sailor with dark hair and even darker eyes. He was square-jawed and lean body. His good looks meant he was never for want of feminine company when they were in port. Blackwood had started his life on the sea as a powder monkey when he was eight. He had sailed around Good Hope twice and been all the way to India once before he was on the crew of the Maywand.

Blackwood hated his time on the Maywand. Captain Underwood had been a right bastard to Blackwood and his crew. But there were also good officers on board. Like doctor, Mister Watson, and Sergeant Middlebrook. Sergeant Middlebrook was a marine. One day, when he was board, he took a few of the seamen and taught them how to shoot muskets. Blackwood had a good eye and still hand. He was an excellent shot. Middlebrook took Blackwood under his wing and taught him everything he knew about guns and ammunition. Blackwood learned how to fix any gun that was on the ship. Including the pistols the officers carried.

When the Dutch attacked the Maywand, Middlebrook and his marines were firing along the railing. A single blast of grapeshot from the Dutch cannon killed most of the firing squad. Middlebrook died in Blackwood’s arms. 

Mister Watson and Major Sholto was able to get one of the long boats into the water before the Maywand went under. John pulled Blackwood from the water. He saved the young sailor’s life and Blackwood was devoted to Watson for that. When Watson deserted his ship and chose to become a pirate, Blackwood eagerly agreed to go with him. Blackwood decided Underwood would be the last bastard he would sail under.

John Watson had grown to trust Blackwood completely. On the Morstan, he was given the unofficial rank of officer. He helped with planning of raids and led his own squad of muskets. He had more freedom and responsibility than he ever had in the King’s Navy. This evening, he was taking the Middle Watch. From midnight to four in the morning. The ship was silent and asleep. The only sound was the occasional rustling of the canvas sails and Blackwood’s footsteps on the boards.

The Caribbean moon was bright and washed the sea in pale blue light. In the distance, Blackwood could see the French island of Guadeloupe. He walked the middle deck again and noticed a small light coming up from the gun deck hatch. Silently, he climbed down the stairs to the main deck and poked his head through the hatch.

He saw a man sitting cross-legged on the floor with a candle in front of him. The man was hunched at the shoulders and seemed to be concentrating on something in his hands. Soundlessly, Blackwood crawled down the steep stairs and onto the deck. He moved on ‘cat’s paws’ up behind the man sitting on the floor. The man’s back to Blackwood.

Blackwood glanced over the man’s shoulders and noticed he had a watch in his hand. Or at least pieces of a watch. Before him on the deck were several pieces spread out on a piece of white canvas. The man’s attention seemed to be fixed on the pieces in his hand. Blackwood could see the man was carefully sliding a small splinter of wood the inside of the watch.

“It is rude to sneak up on someone while they are working.” Sherlock said. His voiced deep and rumbling.

Blackwood nearly shouted in surprise. He didn’t realize that the man sitting on the deck was aware he was there.

“Why aren’t you in your rack?” Blackwood’s words rushed out as his heart beat double time in his chest.

Sherlock twisted and looked over his shoulder. “Do you sleep down there?”

“No.” Blackwood answered surprised once again by the question.

“Neither will I.”

The crew deck on the Mary Morstan was between the two gun decks. It was much tighter than the gun decks. The ceiling height was barely over five feet. All the men needed to duck as they walked down it. Hammocks were hung from the bulkhead walls to a series of vertical poles that ran down the centre of the deck. Men slept in the hammocks hung two to a pole. The quarters were cramped and foul-smelling. The numerous portholes were open, but the unwashed bodies of several dozen men were overwhelming. Sherlock took one step onto the deck, then went to find somewhere else to sleep.

“But John ordered . . .”

“Interesting.” Sherlock mumbled then turned back to the watch.

“What?” Blackwood asked.

“You call him John. Not Captain Watson, or Captain, or even Mister Watson. Or is it Doctor?”

Sherlock twisted slightly so he could observe Blackwood’s response to the title. Blackwood narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and understood quickly how the man had gotten on John’s bad side so quickly.

“The Captain and I have been through a lot together. More than most men. I call him John and he calls me George. And he’s told me you are to sleep with the crew.”

“I need to work.” Sherlock said as he turned his back to Blackwood.

“What are you doing?”

“The captain’s watch was damaged. I’m trying to fix it.”

That shocked Blackwood. John loved his watch. He took very good care of it.

“How did it get damaged?” He asked.

“Apparently, he forgot he had it with him when he jumped into the water to save me. It’s the least I can do. I took some of the cotton and twisted it around a long splinter. I’ve been carefully wiping down the gears and springs inside the watch. Cleaning off all the salt and dirt I’ve found there, but I need some lubricant. Some kind of machine oil.” Sherlock said concentrating on the delicate work.

“Machine oil? How about gun oil?”

Sherlock’s head lifted and turned to look at Blackwood.

“Gun oil? It might work?”

“It’s just simple mineral oil.” Blackwood explained. “It’s stored in the forecastle with the muskets.”

“Yes, that might do the trick.” Sherlock folded the pieces of the watch back into the canvas. He blew out the candle and stood.

The two men walked down the center of the gun deck when Sherlock glanced out of open gunports.

“That’s odd.” He said.

“What?”

“That flash.”

Blackwood quickly looked up and then took off running. There was a loud whistle before a crash. The cannon ball skimmed across the quarter deck and slammed into one of the long boats.

“HARD TO STARBOARD!” Blackwood shouted as he climbed the steps.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard the sound of a ringing bell as the ship tipped to the right. The wooden masts groaned as the wind shifted in the sails. Men started to shout and the sound of running feet could be heard.

Sherlock saw another flash then the whistle of a cannon ball approaching the ship. This time the iron ball fell short of the ship. Sherlock took off running up the stairs to the main deck. Several crew men were at the railings looking out at the ship parallel to the Morstan. Sherlock heard shouting from the gun deck and sound of gunports opening.

“McMath the eighteen pounders – fire when ready!”

Sherlock heard John’s voice. He turned and ran up the steep steps to the sterncastle deck. John was standing next to Blackwood. Both men were staring at the other ship.

“It’s the Vengeance, John.” Blackwood said staring at the ship through a spyglass.

There was another flash.

“In coming!” John grabbed Sherlock and threw him to the to the deck. John fell on top of Sherlock’s body while Blackwood dropped beside them.

The cannon ball sailed over their heads and took out the railing on the starboard of the ship. John leapt to his feet.

“McMath?! Why aren’t we retuning fire?!”

Suddenly the ship tipped to the right as the roar of the cannons filled the night.

Sherlock sat up and watched as the Vengeance took fire. The white canvas sails were suddenly shredded. The Vengeance fired again. This time the cannon balls hit the side of the Morstan. The lead balls crashed through the side of the ship and into the lower decks.

The Morstan cannons fired again. McMath’s aim was deadly. Sherlock watched and the gun ports on the Vengeance exploded. The starboard side of the ship had a gaping hole at mid-deck. The ship didn’t return fire but kept sailing right into the side of the Morstan.

“Prepare for boarding!” John shouted. “Blackwood – muskets!”

He reached down and grabbed Sherlock off the deck. John pulled a pistol from his waistband and shoved it into Sherlock’s hand.

“Get to my cabin and stay there!” He pushed the younger man away from him.

“John!”

Sherlock tried to reach for John but hesitated when he saw ropes with grappling hooks being tossed from the Vengeance. John was already rushing down the stairs to fend off the attackers. The air was thick with smoke from cannons and muskets. Sherlock could hear the sound of men screaming as they were shot or stabbed.

Sherlock stubbled to the rail and looked down at the main deck. Men from the Vengeance were pouring over the rail and attacking the sailors of the Morstan. John had grabbed a sword from somewhere and was fighting against two men. The big black man, Barr, was swing a cudgel and cracking the skulls of anyone who got within range. Blackwood was standing of the forecastle aiming one of the several pistols he had tied around his body.

The scene was chaotic and violent. Blood and screams splattered across the boards of the ship. The decks became slick. Suddenly, Sherlock recognized Jefferson Hope standing at the rail. He pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the back of John’s head. John was still fighting the other men. He didn’t not know Hope was standing behind him.

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted. Then he raised the pistol in his hand and fired. The flash from the black powder was blinding. The report loud. Sherlock felt a sting to his face.

The ball hit Hope in the chest. The man fell forward into John. The two men crashed to the deck, tangled together.

Sherlock rushed to the ladder. A Vengeance sailor swung a sword at him. Sherlock brought the pistol up. The sword smacked the pistol hard. The blow stung Sherlock’s hand. He brought his knee up into the man’s groin. He doubled over and dropped his sword. Sherlock grabbed the man’s sword and rushed to John who was trying to get out from under Hope’s dead body.

Sherlock made it to John’s side and helped him up. John looked down at Hope. His shirt was scarlet with blood as his pale blue eyes still stared from behind his wireframed glasses.

“You do that?” John asked.

“It seemed appropriate.” Sherlock said handing the empty pistol back to John.

“Keep it.”

John turned and engaged another sailor with his sword. Sherlock twisted and repelled a blow from someone else. The tide of the fighting seemed to shift. There was a loud blast of a whistle and the Vengeance sailors moved back over the rail and to their stricken ship.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock shouted his question.

“They’re quitting!” John chased a sailor to the railing and watched as he jumped over to the other ship.

The ropes that had been tying the two ships together had been cut. The Vengeance was twisting away from the Morstan. John turned back to the dead man on the deck.

“It’s Jefferson Hope.” Sherlock said calmly beside John.

“Why would he come after you?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced around at the crew as they started to search the bodies of the dead. Some taking boots and clothing – other gathering weapons.

“Can I speak to you privately.” Sherlock said.

John stared at him for a moment then nodded his head.

“Cullen check with Stamford and see how many wounded. I want this ship fighting fit by morning.” John shouted. “Well done, McMath!”

John waved James over and the three men walked up the steep stairs towards John’s cabin.

“Whatever you need to say to me you can say in front of Sholto. He is my first mate.”

Sherlock hesitated then turned directly towards John. “Someone paid Hope to kidnap me. Hope was trying to get me back so he could deliver me to them.”

“Who?” John asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Why then?” asked James.

Sherlock glanced between the two men. He wanted to trust John. He felt he could trust him. But there were still too many things he didn’t know. He needed to be careful.

“My brother is a wealthy man. He was called to the royal court by the King and Queen.”

John glared and Sherlock thought for a second that John was going to hit him. “That murdering bastard James?”

“No, James has been thrown out. His daughter Mary has taken over the throne. Her husband, William of Orange, is the new king and Mary - the queen.”

John and James seemed shocked by the news. They glanced at each other.

“But William is Dutch. We have a Dutch king?” John asked.

“Didn’t you know?” Sherlock asked.

“News like that doesn’t get around here very quickly. When did this happen?” John asked.

“Before Christmas. Mycroft sailed the day after I was kidnapped.” Sherlock explained.

“I still don’t understand. Why were you kidnapped and not your brother?” James asked.

“Maybe they thought to ransom me. That once Mycroft made it back to England he would pay for my release. Or at least that is what they believed.” Sherlock said.

“Your brother wouldn’t pay a kidnapper?” John asked.

“My brother puts honor and country ahead of everything else. Including the illusion of sibling devotion.”

“Was Hope taking you to England?” James asked.

“No, Port Royal. I was to be given to whomever was paying Hope his fee.” Sherlock said.

“Who is that?” asked James.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said.

“And why are you trusting us this information? We could take you to Port Royal and sell you to this mysterious kidnapper.” John said.

“You told me you didn’t trade in human beings. I believed you. You are an honest pirate.”

John and James laughed.

“Been called many things but never that.”

“I know when I can trust someone.”

“And you trust me to take you back to your brother in England?” John asked.

“I do not want to return to Mycroft. I want to go back to London, but not to him.” Sherlock said.

James and John glanced at each other then John returned his attention to Sherlock.

“We will drop you off in St. Thomas. You can contact your brother from there.”

“I told you I don’t want to return to him.” Sherlock sneered.

“I don’t care what you want. You can’t stay on this ship and it would be safer for us if you weren’t. Whoever is after you apparently is willing to kill to get you.” John said.

“There can be no way that Hope had informed him I’ve escaped. Or who saved me. If you drop me off in some port, there is every likelihood he will find me again and also learn of your assistance. It would be safer for you to take me to England.” Said Sherlock.

“Safer for you, but not for us. We are sailing to Charlotte Amalie. We need to trade the cotton for supplies and then we are going to go back to Port Royal. You can stay in Charlotte Amalie or find your own way back to England. Either way, I don’t care.”

“How soon?” asked Sherlock.

“No more than a week.” John said.

Sherlock frowned. He only had a week to change the stubborn captain’s mind.


	7. Leeward Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repairs to the ship after the attack.

The Mary Morstan didn’t sail directly towards Charlotte Amalie. The day after the attack from the Vengeance, the Morstan was anchored on the sheltered side of a leeward island. The hole in the side of the gun deck needed to be repaired as well as the damage to the upper decks. The sound of hammers pounding nails was sharp and loud.

The crew was hard at work when Sherlock came blurry eyed out of the forecastle. After the excitement of the attack the previous night, Sherlock had difficulty sleeping. He tossed and turned on the small pallet he laid on. The images of John standing on the deck – sword in hand and seconds from death. The hatred he saw in Hope’s face. The overwhelming need to protect the captain. Protect someone he had only recently met. When sleep finally did come to Sherlock it was full of restless dreams of white flashes of gunpowder and scarlet blood.

Sherlock shielded his eyes from the bright sun as he stepped out. He glanced up at the rigging and saw sailors balance precariously on the cross beams of the mast. They were checking the ropes and sails. Below them on the deck, Sholto was directing the repairs to the canvas sails.

“Good morning.” Sherlock said.

“Mornin’.” Sholto replied.

“Where’s the captain?” Sherlock asked.

“John? He’s over the side of the ship.” James kept his attention up on the men sewing.

Sherlock went over and saw Barr standing at the rail. The black man as shirtless. His big, muscled arms glistened with sweat. Without a shirt on, the man appeared even bigger and more formidable. Sherlock watched for a moment. Barr was leaning over the railing and talking to someone off the side of the ship. When he stood up, Sherlock noticed the scars on his back. Thin lashes of marred skin. All going in the same direction. From his right shoulder to his left hip. At least two dozen marks. Whip marks. They were ugly and made Sherlock shuddered with revolution.

Sherlock moved closer and tried to figure out what Barr was doing and where John was. There was block and tackle attached to an arm of the mast. Ropes dropped down the side of the boat. Sherlock looked over and saw John and George Blackwood dangling from small wooden platforms right by the damaged bulkhead. The hole made by the cannon ball was now twice as large. It appeared the damaged wood had been cut out and John and Blackwood were trying to be hammered in new planks of wood. John and Blackwood were struggling to hold the wooden plank over the damaged side.

Both John and Blackwood were shirtless. Sweat streaked down their torsos. Black tattoos stood out in contrast to Blackwood’s pale body. His sinew arms wheeled the ten-pound sledge into the wood. Just before they could get the plank attached, the weight of the board would pull it out of position.

“They need someone else down there.” Sherlock said as he watched.

“Yeah but the mast can’t take additional weight even if we had another swing. If we just lower someone on a rope, they would only have one hand to use. They’d need the other to hang on.” Barr said.

Sherlock looked down at the pile of rope at Barr’s feet. He grabbed one and tied a loop in the end. Next, he slipped another loop through the first loop twisted it and repeated the loop. Then he stepped into the two new loops of the harness.

“Wha’ch doing?” Barr asked.

“I learned this mountain climbing in Switzerland.” Sherlock said.

“Switzerland?” Barr looked surprised.

Sherlock flipped the rope around Barr’s waist and placed it in both of the big man’s hands.

“Lean back and carefully feed it out as I walk down the side of the boat. Once I’m down there with John and Blackwood, hold it steady and I can use my both of my hands to help.”

“Okay, but you are one crazy bastard if you do this.” Barr said.

Sherlock sat on the railing then threw his feet over. He stepped on the edge and turned to face Barr. He nodded once, then leaned far back. Putting his body perpendicular to the ship. Slowly Sherlock repelled down the side of the ship. He walked right down to John who was surprised to see the younger man hanging by a single rope.

“What the devil are you doing?” John asked.

“I’m here to help.”

Sherlock shifted and checked the position of the rope around his body and under his hips. He leaned back until he felt secure and then let go with his hands. He hung there in the loops of rope beside John.

John took a moment to look up Barr holding the rope. “Get that tied off!” John shouted.

“He weighs less than sack of grain. I can hold him all day.”

“If you drop him, I’ll have to go in and rescue him again!” John shouted.

“Okay, captain.” Barr laughed at he moved to a row of belaying pins. After a few seconds, John and Sherlock heard Barr shout above them. “He’s secure, captain.”

Sherlock had been watching John as Barr tied off the rope. He had never seen the captain without his shirt on before. He’d never seen John’s tan torso. The curve and dips of muscles under smooth skin. Suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world to Sherlock, was watching a single bead of sweat travel down the centre of John’s chest. Over his sternum and across his flat abdomen, only to disappear in a thatch of pale brown hair below his navel. He suddenly had an overwhelming need to know what that single drop of perspiration would taste like. 

Sherlock found his mouth watering. He blinked several times before he realized John was speaking to him.

“What are you going to do?” John asked.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sherlock asked. His immediate thought was to say. _‘Lick the sweat from your body.’_ But he realized that would be awkward if not inappropriate. “Yes, yes. I’ll hold the plank in place while you two hammer it into place.”

John thought Sherlock looked confused but then nodded his head. He glanced over to Blackwood.

“Bloody brilliant if you ask me, captain.” Blackwood barked.

The three men lifted the heavy plank into place, then Sherlock braced his feet on it and pushed it into place. He leaned back into the rope and increased the pressure he was placing on it with his feet. John and Blackwood began hammering. The plank held.

Barr the crew lowered the next plank down to John and Blackwood. Again the three of them set it into place then Sherlock held it using his weight. With the final nail hammered in, a cheer went up from the ship. John tossed his hammer up and Barr caught it. He looked over at Sherlock who was studying the way the boards fit together.

“They’ll leak.” Sherlock said.

“That’s why we use pitch and caulk. But first a bath.” A wicked smile came to John’s face.

He watched as Sherlock shifted on his rope harness. He was at just the right angle to not catch his feet.

“A what? A bath?” Sherlock looked confused.

Then John reached over and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders. Both men fell backwards off their perch and into the water. Sherlock barely had time to shout, as the water welcomed him in. He and John popped up to the surface. Sherlock gasping and John laughing. John lunged forward and grabbed Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders for support. John’s arm instinctually came around Sherlock to steady him.

“John!” Sherlock gasped.

Suddenly, Blackwood crashed into the water beside them. He came up with a whoosh of water over his black hair. A broad smile and a glint in his dark eyes.

“Is this your idea of a bath?” Sherlock asked.

“No, but it is a good way to cool off and reward yourself after doing a good job.” John said.

“So right. We’d still be working on that first bloody board if you hadn’t slipped over the edge, Holmes. Blood smart idea, that rope chair.” Blackwood chortled.

John leaned closer to Sherlock. His hand spread wide across Sherlock’s back. “It was. Thank you.”

Sherlock stared into John’s deep blue eyes. They were as blue as the sea. Deep and inviting. The two men swam in each other’s arms. Their bodies pressed together as their legs moving around each other.

Sherlock seemed to forget he was swimming in water. It felt more like dancing in the captain’s arms. 

“It was only logical.” Sherlock spoke softly.

“Only logical? It was brilliant.” John smiled.

He let go of Sherlock and waved his hands up at Barr on the ship. A rope was dropped over the side from a block and tackle. Blackwood swam for it first. He grabbed hold and shouted.

“Ready!”

Suddenly, Blackwood went flying out of water. He shot up like he was propelled out of a cannon. Onto the deck as the crew cheered.

Sherlock turned and looked at John. John was smiling at him.

“It’s fun.”

“Fun? It looks like a good way to get a broken leg.”

“Yeah, but it would be fun!”

The rope dropped back down and John swam towards it. He held it out to Sherlock who took it.

“Hold tight. Try to tuck and roll before you hit the deck.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “Ready!”

Suddenly, Sherlock shot out of the water violently. He almost lost hold of the rope. It slipped in his grip and his hands burned. He gripped tighter as he flew through the air. Weightless. Up thirty – forty feet from the water as he cleared the railing of the boat. He saw the deck moving quickly towards him when he realized he was moving towards it. He remembered John’s words and tucked his legs. He landed on the deck and rolled across the wood. When he stopped he laid sprawled out across it.

There was a shout and a cheer. Then Sherlock saw John sailing through the air. He was flying above the railing and coming down. Sherlock leaned up onto elbow to watch John land on his feet. Bending his knees to take the landing. A broad smile across his face as he looked down at Sherlock.

“Well?” John asked standing over him.

“That was . . . amazing!” Sherlock shouted.

He looked over and saw at least ten men on the line that was pulling them up.

Barr laughed. “Holmes is so light it was like pulling in a minnow.”

John stood over Sherlock and looked down at him. He held out his hand and easily pulled Sherlock off the deck. But when Sherlock stood up, John didn’t let go his hand. Instead John’s left hand came up and gently pushed Sherlock’s wet hair back exposing a slight burn to the side of his face.

“What happened?”

“The flash from the black powder. I didn’t turn my face in time.”

John’s fingers ran lightly around the edges of redden skin. “It’ll heal without a scar. Don’t worry. But Stamford has a cream that will take away any discomfort.”

Sherlock trembled slightly as John’s finger lightly grazed his cheek. “No, it’s fine.” He whispered.

John smiled again and it reached all the way to his eyes. He pulled his hand away and stepped back.

“Alright, to work everyone. This ship won’t repair itself.” John turned towards his crew. “McMath, I want an accounting of how much powder and ammo we have left. Barr get those rails replaced and ready for sanding. James, how is the canvas?”

John was walking away talking to his men as Sherlock stook stock still. The sensation of John’s touch still ghosting over his face.


	8. Meeting of Conspirators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McMath corners Sherlock.

The man tapped his pipe on the pewter dish. The ash fell silently out. He took out his pen knife and carefully scaped the bowl of the pipe then blew through the mouthpiece. He marveled at how quickly he had become addicted to the new import from the American colonies. He would have to establish his own personal supply of this plant called tobacco.

“This is taking too long! I want my crown back now!”

James Stuart slammed his fist down on the table and dislodged the ash from the plate. The man sitting opposite him frowned as the grey ash now staining his white linen tablecloth.

“I told you, you needed to be patient.” The man said as he took out his tobacco patch and carefully pinched the sticky brown shreds into his pipe. Not too tight but still tight enough they wouldn’t fall out.

“My daughter has been a usurper for too long. She is a pawn to that frump William. The bloody Dutchman. I want her gone and I want my throne back. I’m the king!”

The other man rolled his eyes as he lit a taper from the candle and brought the flame over to his pipe. Sucking gently he watched as the tobacco started to glow and burn. The delicious smoke curled into his lungs. At first burning then becoming a welcome sensation. In a matter of seconds he felt the first jolt of nicotine. A chemical cocktail that brought focus and calm simultaneously.

“I have promised to return you to England and your precious throne once Holmes returns from the Caribbean.”

“I should have chopped his head off.” James Stuart growled. His narrow chin twitching at the name of Mycroft Holmes.

“Your return to power depends on the man, your Highness. He is too important to die.” The man glanced up from his pipe to see James Stuart frown at him. “Too important to died, just yet.”

“I will have his head on a spike at London’s Gate. Right beside William’s. And my ungrateful bitch of a daughter will spend the rest of her miserable life in the Tower.”

The other man took a deep sigh. He had heard this rant before. If he wasn’t positive he could manipulate James after his return to England, he would have killed the king himself.

“What is taking so long?” James Stuart asked.

“It takes several weeks to cross from England to the Caribbean and back again. Remember, William and Mary only took your throne in a few months ago. The request for Mycroft’s return had to travel five weeks to get to him, then another five weeks for him to return. And I’m sure he didn’t leave right away. Remember, his dear little brother went missing.” The man smiled around the mouthpiece of his pipe. The smoke curled around his head.

“And the man you’ve hired to kidnap the bastard’s brother. He is dependable?” Stuart had asked this question many times but needed constant reassurance.

“He is quite motivated to be. He will be picking Holmes’ younger brother up in Port Royal and bringing him here. I’m sure they are already in route.” The man took another long drag on the pipe leaning back and closing his eyes.

~~

The first thing anyone ever noticed about William McMath was his flaming red-hair. He was a ‘foundling on the wheel’. Raised in an orphanage in Edinburgh. As soon as he could walk, he had been a curse for the nuns. Constantly defiant and rebellious. Finally the nuns arranged for an apprenticeship for him with a blacksmith when he has twelve. He hated blacksmiths, he hated horses and he hated the nuns. He ran away before the blacksmith arrived to take him. He spent the next two years roaming the streets of Edinburgh - stealing and sweet-talking to get by. When he was fourteen, he had been conscripted to His Majesty’s Navy. After that, he had not spent more than two nights in a row on dry land at any one time. 

McMath served as a gunner’s mate. He had been one on the Maywand. During the battle with the Dutch ship off the Azores, McMath had been on the gun deck, manning his cannon. An exploding cannon ball punched a hole in the side of the deck. Foot long wood splinters and shrapnel cut through the men on the deck. McMath had been badly injured.

After the side of the ship was blown up, he didn’t remember much. Only that Doctor Watson was there with him. He was told that Dr. Watson and the other men pulled him from the water. His body was torn and bloody. He finally woke up on an island. Dr. Watson was pouring coconut milk into his mouth. His body ached and he could bare move. Dr. Watson stayed with him day and night until they were rescued by the British Navy.

When he learned that Watson and the other survivors of the Maywand were going to desert, he immediately joined them. He knew he would always be safe around them. They had survived the worse and now they would live the best.

William McMath’s flaming red hair and sprinkle of freckles were unusual for the Caribbean. Wherever they went, he drew attention. And he was a man of insatiable appetites. He was notorious for trying to bed any new crewmember who came on board. To his record, he had fucked at least fifteen members of the forty-man crew. Given the long distances between ports, McMath was always able to find a partner on board. There was no jealousy or resentment. He was just a man who liked to fuck – anyone at any time. He even made an offer to the Captain Watson one night in San Juan. The captain laughed as he turned him down. 

But now there was someone new who had peaked his interest. The man they had rescued from the Vengeance. The dark-haired man with silver-blue eyes. McMath could just imagine what those eyes would look like as the younger man knelt in front of him with his plump lips wrapped tightly around McMath’s manhood. He’d even started to think about Sherlock Holmes taking him down his throat as he ‘ _rubbed one off’_.”

He waited for Holmes to come down to the crew’s quarters and sneak into the man’s hammock, but Holmes never appeared. He then started to follow Holmes around the ship. McMath had noticed the big burly Henry Barr always standing guard over him. Barr could snap McMath in two if he wanted. McMath thought the big man was interested in nailing ‘silver eyes’ to the bulkhead too. It was okay by him. The two would have to take turns with Holmes.

They were a day out of St. Thomas when McMath saw his chance. It was early evening and the ship was sailing into the setting sun. Holmes was in the forecastle with Blackwood. He was sitting down, hunched over the worktable. Blackwood had allowed Holmes to use the delicate tools Blackwood used to repair the muskets and pistols. McMath watched as Blackwood left and left Holmes alone.

McMath entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“What’s ya doing?” He asked. His voice a soft purr.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “Obviously working.”

He returned to attention back to the table.

“Looks like delicate work.” McMath stepped closer and leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It is.”

“Such work can be . . . wearisome. Especially if you’ve been on your knees scrubbing the decks. I’m sure your shoulders must be sore.”

McMath brought his hands up and slowly started to massage Sherlock’s shoulders. Using his thumbs he pressed deep into the muscles. Sherlock moaned and pushed back into the pressure. McMath smiled.

“Feel’s good?”

“Yes but you need to stop.” Sherlock said.

“Why?” McMath kept massaging Sherlock shoulders.

“I need to keep working. I need to get this done before we arrive in port.”

“We have plenty of time before that.” McMath’s hands moved slowly up Sherlock’s back to his neck.

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes as the tight muscles in his neck were kneaded. McMath waited as Sherlock became pliant in his hands. McMath leaned forward and whispered. 

“I can make you feel real’ good, you know. I can make you forget about everything. Make you relax completely.”

“How?” Sherlock asked.

McMath leaned further and lightly dragged his lips up Sherlock’s neck then closed his teeth over the tender skin under his ear.

Sherlock gasped and shivered.

“Trust me.” McMath whispered.

“Trust you to be where you shouldn’t be, McMath!” John’s voice boomed in the small cabin of the forecastle.

McMath jumped back from Sherlock. Sherlock stiffened and twisted around to see the glower on John’s face.

“What are you doing in here, McMath? Shouldn’t you be on the gun deck? We went through a fight a few days ago. Are the cannons ready for another?” John growled.

“Yes, sir.” McMath gave a quick salute and rushed out of the cabin.

Sherlock was quickly putting the watch back together as John was yelling at McMath. When McMath left, John turned to attention and anger towards Sherlock.

“And you – what are you doing in here? Does Blackwood know you are in here? Using his tools it looks like?”

Sherlock stood up and stared down at John. Once again, he was surprised that John was not intimidated by the taller man.

“I’ve been helping Blackwood with the pistols and muskets. He’s teaching me how to repair them.”

“And what was McMath teaching you?!” John glared up at Sherlock.

“He just came in. He just – what are you insinuating?”

John’s eye grew larger. “It’s bloody obvious what I’m insinuating! If you want to be a blood whore, do it on another ship!"

“WHAT?!”

“You heard me! I won’t have you going around bedding my crew! Keep your hands to yourself!” John shouted now.

“My hands?! He was the one touching me, not the other way around. And why would I be interested in McMath anyway?”

“Because – because . . .” John couldn’t answer the question. He growled and threw his arms across his chest. “Don’t let me catch you again with one of my crew like that, do you hear me?!”

“Or what?” Sherlock sneered back.

“I’ll show you what it means to be a Captain’s whore. I’ll make sure you are fucked every night and learn to love it!”

John actually watched Sherlock pale more. The man’s fair skin seemed to become ghostly. A wave of regret washed over John and he wished he could take the words back. He suddenly felt out of place. He hated it. To feel out of place on his own ship. He turned quickly and fled the cabin. Marching across the deck and up to his cabin on the sterncastle.

James Sholto watched John march from the front of the ship to the back. Then he noticed Sherlock step out of the forecastle. A sudden stab of anxiety came to Sholto. He went to John’s cabin. Sholto didn’t knock. He simply opened the door and walked in.

John was stomping around his cabin, muttering. His face was red and hands were clenched into fists.

“He got you that upset?” James asked patronizingly.

“Who, McMath?”

“Of course not.” James sat down at one of the chairs at John’s desk.

“He is so fucking infuriating.” John hissed.

“And fucking gorgeous.” James replied.

John glanced up from his pacing and stared at his friend.

“I told him to leave. He needs to get the hell off my ship.” John said.

“Why? For his safety or yours?”

“What do you mean?” John asked confused.

“John, it’s me, James. I know you.”

“He is a troublemaker. He keeps upsetting the crew.”

“Upsetting the crew or upsetting you. You’re lonely, John. You need someone.”

John flopped down the chair opposite James. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“It’s not like that, James. Not this time.”

“John you shut people out all the time. You keep us at arm’s length.”

“No I don’t.” John defended.

“Yes you do. I should know.” He gave John a soft sad smile. “And then someone comes along and somehow sneaks under that armor you have on, you become terrified and send him away. Why?”

“I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” John stared into James’ green eyes. He knew he couldn’t lie to the man. The man had seen John at his most vulnerable. “It’s just best if he was gone.”

John looked down at his hands. James leaned forward and wrapped his hands over John’s.

“You know how much I care for you, John. I worry for you. And I agree, you should send the man away. He doesn’t belong here with us. But don’t do this to yourself. Don’t keep denying yourself, John.”

John shook his head as he looked up into James’ face. Sudden flashes of the past came to him. Heated glances when they both served as officers on the Maywand. A hesitant touch as they passed each other in the corridors below deck. One frightening moment when James’ had pulled him into a storage locker and robbed the breath of John’s lungs. The feel of James’ callous hand on John’s prick. The whispered promise in John’s ear. _‘Next time, I want you inside me, John.’_

“You know it’s right to leave him behind. But you don’t have to be alone. I’m right here.”

The stolen moments on the Maywand seem so long ago. It was a lifetime ago. A universe away. Sometimes John wondered if it wasn’t a dream. Some fantasy he had created to soften the memories of life on the ship.

“James,” John’s voice was soft. “I know. I know you are there for me. And you gave me so much.”

“I’ll give you whatever you need again, John. Whatever.” James’ voice dropped to the same volume as John’s. A shared moment of intimacy.

“I’m the captain now, James. Not the naïve doctor on his first ship.” John leaned back and pulled his hands out of James’ grasp. “I loved you on Maywand. I love you now, but it is different.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” James said.

“Babcock made it different. Time has made it different. If we . . . well we can’t for the sake of the Morstan and her crew. We can’t.”

James frowned. “It was long time ago, John. The Admiralty believes Underwood was killed by the Dutch.”

“But we know differently. And that makes this different from then.” John stood up and walked towards the door of his cabin. “We’ll be in Charlotte Amalie by noon tomorrow and Sherlock Holmes will be off the Morstan. Then we can simply disappear again and go on as we have been.”

James stood up and stared at John. “As we have been,” he agreed.


	9. St. Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his watch back.

Sherlock woke up in the forecastle. He had finally fallen asleep in the early hours while the rest of the ship was silent. His head was resting on his arms, folded across the table where he had been working. In front of him was John’s watch. He had finished it in the early morning hours. Now the sun was shining through the window fully. It had to mid-morning or earlier afternoon.

The ship was rocking slightly side to side. The sound of boots on the wooden decks was loud. Sherlock slipped John’s watch into his pocket and stood. Stretching his arms over his head, he groaned at his sore muscles. He glanced out the door to see the last bale of cotton being hoisted out of the hold and moved to the quay. Barrels of water were being rolled up the gangplank and carefully lowered into the hold.

They were docked in Charlotte Amalie.

The quay was crowded and busy. Stacks of cargo and supplies created a maze across the docks. Men scurried in and out of the piles. Shouts in Danish and French intermingled with English. Captains looking for new crewmembers had set up small tables in front of their boats, evaluating any man who came forward. Other men offered to help with the loading and unloading of ships. A days work with the certainty of sleeping in one’s own bed that night.

Sherlock took a deep sigh. He needed to deboard. He didn’t want to, but John had insisted. John, the enigmatic and unusual captain of the Morstan. Sherlock wondered if he had ever met a man as open and plain in appearance but as much as any puzzle he ever put before him. Regretting having to leave, he opened the door of the gun room and walked out on deck.

John was standing at the head of the gangplank watching as supplies were being loaded. It took a moment before John noticed Sherlock watching him. For a brief moment, the two men stared at each other, then John turned back to the loading. Sherlock seemed drawn to the captain’s deep blue eyes. There seemed so simple to read but he knew there were depths there that even he could never reach.

Hesitantly, Sherlock walked up to John. “Good morning, Captain.”

John gave Sherlock a quick nod then tried to concentrate on anything other than Sherlock’s face.

“Good afternoon, Mister Holmes. Charlotte Amalie. It’s Danish. British ships come in here all the time. You should be able to find a ship that will take you back to England quite quickly. The British navy even stops here on occasion.” John explained without looking at Sherlock.

“I’ll be actively avoiding the Royal Navy, thank you very much. They probably have orders from Mycroft to take me back to Barbados.”

John glanced up for a moment then back down to a list in his hand. “Well, these are the last barrels that are to be loaded. We are leaving port immediately. You will need to get ashore.”

“Of course.” Sherlock said. He awkwardly glanced at the dock and the men working down there. “My boots.”

John glanced back at him. “What?”

“My boots – I mean the boots you loaned me. May I . . .”

“Yes, yes. You need them. Please keep them. And the clothes too.” John glanced around quickly to see if anyone was listening to them. “Do you need anything?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know, maybe money or something?”

“No, John. I’ll be fine. And if I haven’t said it, thank you.”

John tipped is head back to consider Sherlock’s uncertain expression.

“For saving my life back in Roseau.” Sherlock explained.

John smiled. “You hadn’t said, and you’re welcome.”

For a moment Sherlock smiled back. The two men shared something private and personal. Then Sherlock regained himself. He watched as Blackwood walked up the gangplank and back on board.

“That’s it, Captain. All’s aboard.”

“Thanks” John nodded to Blackwood and then returned to Sherlock. “Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out John’s watch. He held it out to him, palm up.

“Here, I’ve repaired it for you.”

John glanced down and felt a sudden weight to his chest. He took it and carefully opened it. The second hand was sweeping smoothly across the ivory face.

“When did you . . . I didn’t know it was missing.”

Sherlock stared down at John’s hand and the watch.

“My sympathy on your father’s indisposition.” Then he turned to leave.

Stunned John said nothing and simply watched Sherlock walked calmly down the gangplank and onto the quay. He moved between the people and around the boxes and bundles of cargo. His long strides quickly taking him farther away from the Morstan and John.

“So he’s gone.” James said as he moved quietly to stand next to John and Blackwood.

“Yes. I told you he would have to leave.”

That is when John noticed the other man. The stranger had been leaning against a wall watching the ship. John had seen him earlier in the day standing in the same place. Usually when there was cargo to loaded and unloaded from a ship, a vagrant like him would offer to work for a few coins. But this man stood watch over the Morstan.

As soon as Sherlock had walked pass him, the man pushed himself off the wall and started to follow. Then John noticed another man slip in beside the stranger as they followed Sherlock down the quay.

“Fuck.” John growled and took off running down the gangplank. Blackwood and Barr on his heels.

~~

The hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck prickled. He could feel a tingle over his skin like gooseflesh rising, but it was hot and the sun was blazing down on him. He knew he was being followed. For a moment, his heart leapt thinking it was someone from the Morstan to call him back. Then he realized he was being ridiculous. There was no reason why John would want Sherlock back on board.

He veered between the stacks of cargo and doubled back on himself. He moved quickly around the large stack of crates to see that he was being followed by two men he’d never seen before. The men had lost Sherlock in the piles of cargo. They were moving quickly through the tall piles looking for him. Sherlock glanced around and tried to find an escape when he heard one of men shout.

“There ‘e is! Get ‘im!”

Sherlock took off running. He backtracked himself in hope of reaching the Morstan. He heard the sound of running feet and glanced over his shoulder to see more than two men chasing him. Sherlock sped up and round the last pile of crates. In front of him was John with two men from the Morstan running towards him.

Sherlock waved his arms, but John kept running straight at him. Sherlock thought the crazed man was going to crash into him, but just at the last second, John dodged Sherlock. He ran past him with a raised fist that pommeled into the pursuer’s face. The man chasing Sherlock collapsed onto the ground.

Barr and Blackwood immediately starting fighting the other men. Kicks and punches were thrown. There was blood and grunts as clenched fist connected with jaws. Two men attacked Barr. The big black man easily tossed one man off the quay and into the water. The second man came at Barr with a knife. Barr stared at the blade for a moment then grabbed a length of rope. He wrapped several turns around his forearm to protect it then let the rest of the rope trail out two feet. He spun it back and forth like a whip on either side of his body. Then he flicked his wrist out and the rope wrapped around the wrist holding the knife. The attacker struggled to free his hand and wrist form the rope – not paying attention to Barr. Barr’s big meat fist crashed into the man’s face. The sound of cracking teeth and breaking bones was obvious.

Blackwood had his own knife. He was sparring with another attacker. Both men circled around each other occasionally slicing at each other’s face. The attacker lunged forward and Blackwood took a step to the side and back. He lowered his hand then slid it across the other man’s belly. The razor-sharp blade sliced through the man’s clothes and into his flesh. He screamed as his blood gushed across the quay.

John and Sherlock each had a man to fight. They danced and weaved as they tried to avoid being punched. Their attackers kept lumbering forward and then pushed back with every punch Sherlock and John landed on them. Finally one of the attackers pulled out a short pistol and pulled the hammer back. He aimed it straight at John’s chest. John halted in mid-punch. Sherlock stopped fighting as soon as he saw John’s life threatened.

“We’ll be taken ‘im with us.” The man spoke between gritted teeth. Blood smeared across his dirty face.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“Our captain has made arrangements to take y’ah to Port Royal. You be ‘aven a friend there to meet y’ah.”

Sherlock slowly moved in front of John. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm to try and move him back but the taller man wouldn’t move.

“I do not have any ‘friends’ in Port Royal. I want to know the name of the man who sent you.”

“This ‘ere gun says we don’t care what you be wanting.” The man waved the gun under Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock leaned back into John’s body.

“You must need me alive. Shooting me would only defeat your plan to deliver me to Port Royal.”

“We wouldn’t be killing y’ah, but we can leave a mark or two.” The man smiled.

His other companions slowly climbed back to there feet. Barr and Blackwood slowly backed up and stood on either side of John. From the far side of the quay, other men were rushing towards them. Sherlock’s eyes flashed up at them then back down at the muzzle pointed at his chest.

“You really should reconsider your position.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Stupid.” Sherlock said.

Then there was a bang and the man holding gun at Sherlock flew backwards. The front of his shirt bloomed scarlet. The other men were stunned. It took them a moment to realize it wasn’t Sherlock who had shot their companion. They looked around and then noticed the men standing on the sterncastle of the Morstan.

Sholto was reloading his musket. Cullen and Henn had guns pointed at the men and McMath was pointing the loaded swivel-gun at the men running towards them. McMath pressed the linstock to the touch hole and gun fired. The heavy shot whistled across the quay and at the men. Sacks of sugar were struck as well as the men. Several men fell to the ground as the raw sugar snowed down on the bloodied bodies.

There were shouts and screams. Some called out for ‘ _nåde_ ’. Everyone on the quay was watching as McMath was reloading the small cannon.

John’s face carried a malevolent smile. He pushed a stunned Sherlock to the side.

“We’re leaving now with our passenger. You come after us, you’ll get more of the same.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back. The four men started to slowly towards the Morstan. Then they quickly turned and took off running. The attackers didn’t give chase. They fled away from the muskets and the swivel-gun that was already loaded and ready to fire again.

John’s crew had already pulled the lines and the sails were lowering when John and the men ran up the gangplank and made it to the deck. The ship was moving away from the dock when the first cannon ball sailed over the ship.

“Over there, captain!” Blackwood pointed to another ship on the opposite side of the quay. “It’s the _Lone Star_.”

John knew the ship and her captain, Elias Openshaw. An evil man who had captained several slave ships to the West Indies.

“Full sails!” John shouted.

“But John, we’re still in the harbor.” James Sholto said as John rushed up to the sterndeck.

The harbor of Charlotte Amalie was wide and deep but the island itself reached around to enclosed it. The channel out of the harbor was narrow. It was less than seven hundred feet between Hassel Island, a hilly island on the west side of the harbor and Rupert’s Rock, an outcropping of rocks in the middle of the channel. It was busy channel and ships were to take it slowly as to not crowd one another.

Another cannon ball flew into the sails.

“You expect me to take Mary Morstan out of here slowly and give them another chance to sink us?” John twisted and shouted at McMath. “Fire the Long Nines at them, McMath. At your will!”

McMath went to the two cannons facing to the stern of the ship. The Long Nines were longer than the other cannons on board and could shoot farther. But because they were parallel to the keel instead of perpendicular, they had to be smaller caliber.

John steered the ship into the channel as the Lone Star was leaving the dock and pursuing after them. The powder monkeys, Billy and Zeb were running back and forth between the magazine and McMath who was loading the cannons.

John watched as two more ships entered the channel from the opposite end. The Lone Star fired her bow guns. The cannon balls fell to the port side of the Morstan.

“Captain!” Blackwood pointed at the second ship coming into the channel from the sea. The white flag with the red cross billowed behind the British Man-of-war. St. George’s Cross.

“Fuck!” John cursed as he spun the wheel and tried to moved the Morstan into the center of the channel.

The Morstan suddenly lurched forwards as McMath fired the long nines. Morstan’s sails caught the wind coming down over the mountains of St. Thomas and the ship picked up speed.

There was another crack and cannon balls from the Lone Star flew at the Morstan.

~~

Captain Greg Lestrade was standing on the wheel deck of the Scotland as the ship entered into the channel. Ahead of the British ship was another commercial vessel and two ships leaving the harbor. Suddenly he heard the clap of cannon fire. He leaned forward grasping the railing and glared the two approaching ships. Neither one was flying any flags. But he recognized the name of the lead ship. The Mary Morstan.

“Anderson, prepare the guns! Donavan, veer to starboard to intercept! Dimmitt ready boarding parties!”

The crew of the Scotland scurried across it’s decks as the other two ships traded shots back and forth.

~~

John watched the merchant ship swerve away from them and into the shallows of Hassel Island. The ship would be out of the way of any cannon balls from the Lone Star but it might aground in the shallow water. But the British naval ship shifted to sail closer to them. Putting itself into the line of fire. At the heading they were both traveling, the two ships would collide. John turned the wheel again to port. His ship rocked as McMath fired again at the Lone Star.

John looked at the British ship and saw the gun ports opening up.

“DAMN it all!” He shout. “McMath! The ship hard to starboard!”

McMath glanced over and saw the British naval ship approaching. To took off running yelling at his crew to open the ports and load the cannons. John knew McMath wouldn’t be able to get there in time. His only choice was to hope the Lone Star would help. Once again he turned the wheel to aim the Morstan directly at the Scotland.

~~

Lestrade watched as Watson steered his ship direct at him. He thought the other man was insane.

“Donavan, easy to port. Pull the sails.”

Lestrade watched as the ship behind the Morstan fired it’s bow guns. Suddenly, Lestrade understood what Watson was doing. The cannon balls from the Lone Star struck the browstrip. The rigging to the foremast snapped. Ropes and pullies fell to the deck, sending his crew scattering for cover. Another cannon blast from the Lone Star overshot the Morstan and crashed into the forecastle of the Scotland.

“Donavan Hard to Starboard! Anderson, port guns! Fire at the Lone Star!”

The Scotland leaned heavily to the left as the shift abruptly turned in the channel. The ship lumbered to the right and sailed directly at the Morstan. It would be a broadside hit.

~~

John and the crew of the Morstan watched in amazement as the Scotland turned in the narrow channel and started to sail directly at them. John tuned the wheel yet again and the boat leaned into the wind and moved to port. She started to pick up speed as another blast from the Lone Star echoed off the hills of both sides of the channel.

The cannon balls form the Lone Star fell short of the Morstan. It became apparent the Lone Star had changed its aim from the Morstan and shifted it to the Scotland. The large man-o-war cut through the water and was still heading directly at the starboard side of the Morstan.

Sherlock ran up the steps and watched as the ship sailed at them.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice carried an amount of concern.

“It’s going to be tight.” John gritted his teeth and edged the ship closer to the jagged fringes Rupert Rock.

There was a massive boom. John and Sherlock turned to see smoke from cannon fire coming out of the port side of the Scotland. The Lone Star took a direct hit from the broadside cannons. The foremast and mainmast of the ship split and crashed to its decks.

John and Sherlock watched as the Scotland continued to sail at them. The ships were within yards of each other. They could hear the captain of the vessel shouting orders for the ship to turn to port. When they met, there was barely four feet difference between the two. A man would have been able to easily step from the bow of the Scotland and onto the stern of the Morstan.

The Scotland sailed behind the Morstan. Twisting and turning in a zigzag in the narrow channel. The Scotland had sailed between the two pirate ships. John and Sherlock turned to see the captain of the Scotland glaring at them.

“Holmes!” Lestrade shouted. “HOLMES!”

The Scotland turned further away as it fired again on the Lone Star. The pirate ship shattered. Planks of wood and canvas flew up into the air as the stricken ship limbed towards Hassel Island to sink in the shallow waters.

John turned back to the wheel and steered the Morstan out into the deeper water of the ocean while Sherlock watched the Scotland try to turn back into the channel. It would not be able to give immediate chase. The channel was too narrow for such a move twice. The boat would need to go into the harbor and then carefully be turned.

Sherlock watched until St. Thomas was a streak of green above the blue horizon. He went and stood next to John.

“Now what?” Sherlock asked.

“I think it’s time we start to get some answers.” John said.

“I’ve told you everything I know.” Sherlock said defensively.

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias Openshaw and the Lone Star are found in the Sherlock Holmes story 'The Five Orange Pips'.


	10. London, England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft arrives home.

Mycroft Holmes had immediately gone to Westminster when he arrived in London. He spent several hours in discussions with several members of Parliament before finally deciding to return to his townhouse near Kensington. Wanting nothing more than to rest and replenish himself in his own home. But Sir Henry Knight had insisted on escorting Holmes.

“Three years with barbarians. How could you survive?” Sir Henry lamented. The man waved a scented handkerchief under his nose.

“Barbados is not inhabited with barbarians. Many of the residence are British citizens.” Mycroft said as his attention shifted to the passing world outside the carriage window.

“Tell me, did you sleep in a grass hut on the beach?” Sir Henry asked.

“My home was made of brick and plaster. Two stories with an adequate library.” That was a lie. Mycroft was only able to travel with two dozen of his favorite books. He desperately missed his home in London with its substantial library. 

“Oh, how unexpected.” Sir Henry seemed disappointed to learn that Mycroft wasn’t a victim of privation.

Unable to be alone in his thoughts, Mycroft took a moment to study the man sitting across the carriage from him. Knight had a slightly portly body of an early middle-aged aristocrat. His round face still maintained the slight pudginess of youth even though he was a few years older than Mycroft. His pale fingers were stubby but clean. The fingernails neatly trimmed and unbitten. More likely than not he had no musical expertise nor was he apt at the manly arts of hunting. Stress and concerns were minor for him. His unremarkable brown eyes showed obvious ineptitude. Mycroft quickly disregarded the man as incompetent.

Sir Henry’s secretary, Jackson Stapleton, was a different story. The man was much older than Sir Henry. His hair and beard were streaked white. His eyes were pale blue and constantly shifting. He carefully kept Sir Henry on subject whenever the lord veered off topic.

“Sir Henry, the queen’s request.” Stapleton reminded his master.

Sir Henry glanced at Stapleton with a confused look on his face then remembered. “Yes, how silly of me.”

Mycroft thought how in character of him.

“Queen Mary wishes to speak to you as soon as it is convenient for you. I did try to explain to her that you only just returned from three years of living with the natives on some desert island.”

Mycroft turned his head and raised his eyebrows in mockery at the other man. Sir Henry didn’t seemed to recognize the expression.

“Sir Henry, the letter.” Stapleton prodded.

“Oh, yes. How reminiscent of me.”

He removed a small pale blue envelope from inside his coat and handed it to Mycroft. Mycroft recognized the handwriting immediately. Sir Henry watched expectantly – hoping to know what private communications Queen Mary had with Lord Holmes. Mycroft slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket unread.

“She is a female and so unreasonable.” Henry said, disappointed he had no gossip to share with others at court. “I’m sure you will need several weeks to recuperate before you will be able to withstand the rigors of the royal court.”

“Please inform the queen, my presence is complete at her discretion. I look forward to speaking to her as soon as possible.” Mycroft bowed his head respectfully to the woman who wasn’t even in the carriage.

“Oh,” Sir Henry said surprised. “I’m sure she can wait for you to at least see your tailors. I mean you haven’t had a new suit of clothes in three years. You don’t want to appear at Whitehall in those clothes.” Sir Henry waved his handkerchief at Mycroft’s traveling clothes. Time aboard ship and sea air had been taxing on the clothing.

An eloquent smile came to Mycroft’s face. “I have a talented and expedient agent here in London. As soon as the news of my return was released, they made arrangements for my return. My home here has been opened up and prepared for my arrival. As well as new wardrobe waiting for me. My agent has made the arrangements with my tailor.”

“Truthfully? Amazing. I must meet this man of yours. He sounds like a miracle worker.”

Mycroft noticed the frown on Stapleton’s face. Returning his attention to Sir Henry, Mycroft said.

“She is.”

Sir Henry gasped.

Mycroft turned away and stared out the window as the carriage turned into Grosvenor Square. He recognized the familiar houses and the wrought iron fences. The flat paving stones and the well-maintained gardens. The white marble houses that surrounded the center park were stately and elegant. The epitome of British traditionalism. 

Mycroft had been lucky. When he had been expelled from the country, King James had seized the Holmes residence and all of the belongs inside. Fortunately, though, the previous king was too busy fighting off the Tories and fled England before he could auction off Mycroft’s belongings. Mycroft returned to his home mostly intact.

The carriage rattled up to the curb and stopped in front of the four-story building. The windows were no longer shuttered and barred. Light could be seen coming from the ground floor rooms. The front door was freshly painted with an elegant black paint that made the brass fittings even more brilliant. Even the lamp over the front door had its glass panes cleaned.

The footman jumped down from the back of the carriage and rushed forward to open the door. He carefully flipped down the step and Mycroft descended from the compartment. The front door opened and a dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway.

Sir Henry glanced at the young woman confused. “Your wife?”

“No, someone far more valuable to me. My assistant.”

“Most incredible.”

“Most efficient.” Mycroft smiled and turned back towards the carriage. “Gentlemen, thank you for your company on my drive home. I will say goodnight and hopefully will see you tomorrow at the palace.”

Sir Henry’s mouth fell open as Stapleton nodded his head.

“Good evening, Lord Holmes. I will make sure Lord Knight is in attendance at court.”

Stapleton tapped on the roof of the carriage. The footman closed the door and replaced the step. He quickly jumped up on the back running board and carriage rattled off.

“I believe he was expecting to be invited in,” Anthea said quietly as her employer climbed the few steps up to the door.

“I’m sure he did but I will not have my first evening back in my home ruined by the vacuous likes of Sir Henry Knight.”

Anthea smiled. “Of course, Lord Holmes.”

Mycroft climbed the stairs and entered his home. The first time in three years.

“Good evening, Anthea. Is everything prepared?” Mycroft asked as he handed his cloak and hat to a footman in full livery.

“Yes, sir. The staff has been hired back. The cook has stocked the larder with your favorite foods. A new set of carriage horses will be here tomorrow morning. Your valet is waiting for you in your private quarters. Dinner will be waiting for you after you bath and change into more suitable attire. There are letters on your desk that arrived today for your attention.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft said.

Mycroft waved his hand dismissing the woman as he walked quickly through the house and into his private library. He paused for a moment.

The room had floor to ceiling bookshelves. There were butter soft leather chairs and the largest oak desk he could purchase. The oriental rugs on the floor his father had brought back from Persia decades before. The mantel above the fireplace was carved Carrara marble. He let the ambiance of the room fill him. The scent of leather and old books and home.

He smiled as he crossed the room and sat down at his desk. The chair embraced him and he finally felt at home. He removed the letter from his jacket and let his fingers slid over his name written on the envelope. He quickly opened it and read the woman’s tiny handwriting. She was desperate for him to visit her as soon as possible. He felt confident that if he went to Whitehall Palace in the morning, she would readily meet with him. He set the note down and then glanced at the other letters. Disregarding one after another, he paused on the last letter. It was addressed to the _Brother of Sherlock Holmes._

A tight grip wrapped around Mycroft’s heart. Using the letter knife he sliced through the wax seal and opened the letter.

_Dear sir,_

_It has come to my attention that your bother, Sherlock is missing. This must be very distressing for you. I’m aware that you worry constantly for Sherlock. As you should. As any devoted brother would. And distance doesn’t change that need to keep you brother safe, does it? Remember your brother and his life next time you speak to the Queen._

_Yours._

There was no name. there was no direct threat, but Mycroft was still chilled. It was evident that his greatest fears were being realized. Someone was using Sherlock against him. And if Mycroft didn’t do as they asked, Sherlock would be killed.

~~

John Watson walked up on to the sterndeck and removed a sextant from it case. He carefully wiped the brass instrument with a flannel. Checking to see that it was in good working order. Intrigued, Sherlock watched as John carefully examined the instrument. He watched as John held the sextant up to his eye and looked through the small square box at the horizon. Then John tipped his head back and looked at the sun. With practiced movement, John’s fingers adjusted the brass arm along a curved index. Then John glance at the numbers on the index. He turned and realized he was being watched. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Getting our position.” John said. “It’s a big ocean. I need to know we are headed in the correct direction.”

“You have a set destination?”

“Yes,” John looked annoyed. “It’s not like we just sail around out here, in hopes we hit something.”

John glanced at his watch and noted the time of day. Then he consulted a book in the box that held the sextant.

“So where are we going?” Sherlock asked frustrated with John.

“I’ve told you. Someone who knows everything that is going on in the Caribbean.” John said. He carefully wiped the sextant down again and replaced it in its box.

“How can one person know everything that is going on in an area as large as the Caribbean?”

“If anyone would know she would.” John said with a smirk.

“She?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John glanced up at him. “You don’t think a woman is capable of being that powerful?”

“I haven’t met one yet, although my brother does have an assistant that might come close if she wasn’t so foolishly devoted to Mycroft.”

“Do you fancy her?” John asked trying to ignore the twist in his chest.

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock growled.

John laughed. “Sounds like ‘sour grapes’ if you ask me.”

“Sour grapes? Why would I be jealous of Mycroft and Anthea?”

“Anthea?” John asked confused for a moment by the name. He wondered if anyone associated with Holmes has a common name. “Well, maybe you’re jealous of their relationship.”

“Holmes don’t do relationships.” Sherlock snorted.

John shook his head. “Your loss. You miss out on many things not being open to new ideas – like relationships.”

Sherlock sneered. “Unimportant. Who is this woman?”

“The Woman.” John said.

“What?”

“She goes by the name of ‘The Woman’.” John said.

“How melodramatic.” Sherlock quibbled.

“Just wait.”

John rubbed the back of his gold watch. He turned it and looked at the open face. Suddenly he felt guilty.

“I didn’t tell you thank you.”

“For what?” Sherlock turned back to him. Sherlock had been looking at the sextant. His long fingers rubbing lightly over the etchings of the curved gage.

“My watch.”

“Oh that, it was nothing. Something to occupy my mind as we sailed to St. Thomas.” Sherlock’s attention returned to the sextant in the box.

“Well, it’s very important to me. My father left it to me.”

“Yes, I know.”

John gave a slight shake as the words hit him. “What do you mean you know?”

“I know your father is more than likely dead. Given the extent of his drinking, it’s not surprising.”

John grabbed a fist full of Sherlock’s shirt and twisted the man to glare at him.

“Whose been talking out the side of their mouth!?”

“What?”

“Who told you my father was a drunkard?” John growled.

“No one told me. I observed.” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“I observed.”

John turned and looked sideways at the taller man. “Explain.”

“It’s all there in the watch.” Sherlock reached for the watch but John pulled it out of his reach. Sherlock sighed and held his hand out. Relenting, John set his prize watch in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock turned it over and held out for John to see.

“This is an expensive watch. It was worth six month’s salary for a common man. Therefore it was purchased by a professional man. But the watch was not maintained after it was purchased. The case is scratched. The watch was kept in a pocket with coins. Why was the watch kept in a pocket with coins instead of on a watchchain. The watchchain was removed. Probably sold. The initials that were obviously engraved by an experienced jeweler. J.C.W. Your name is John H. Watson. So you didn’t have the letters engraved. I’ve been told on various occasions that this was your father’s watch. So your father had the initials J.C.W. Someone with a more than adequate income. But something happened to that income. Notice these scratch marks here.”

Sherlock pointed to several short intentional marks on the inside of the cover.

“These are pawn broker marks. The watch was pawned on at least three occasions, only to be reclaimed by the owner. Your father?”

“How do you know it was my father that was pawning the watch?”

“Who else would be willing to pawn the watch? Who other than yourself had access to it? You said you received it upon your father’s death. So not another family member. You have been at sea for many years. If you had pawned it, you would be unable to reclaim it before it was sold. Therefore it had to be your father who was pawning it. Why would a man of more than adequate income fall into such poverty to pawn a valuable item as a gold watch. Health issues. What kind of health issues come and go at least three times, drunkenness.”

John knew he should be angry. He knew he punch the poncy bastard in the nose. But he couldn’t. He was utterly amazed by Sherlock’s observations and deductions.

“That was completely and totally . . .” John started.

Sherlock braced himself for the punch.

“Remarkable.”

“What?”

“Spot on. I can’t believe it.” John let go of Sherlock’s shirt.

“I thought you were going to . . .”

“Hit you? Beat the pulp out of you?” John asked. “I still might. Don’t be doing that to me again.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. “Normally I’m punched.”

“Then why do you do it?” John asked. 

“I can’t help myself. It’s a compulsion.”

“Like drunkenness?”

Sherlock looked sideways at the shorter man. “I can see where both could cause great physical distress.”

“Let me suggest you don’t try that on the ‘Woman’. She’ll have your bollocks for earrings before we leave if you do.”

Sherlock watched as John walked down the steps, carrying the box with the sextant. No one have ever said his deductions were remarkable. No one had been that angry with him only to compliment him on his observations. It made him feel odd inside. Slightly warm and giddy. It was different but not so unappealing.


	11. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet the Woman.

The cannons of Castillo San Felipe del Morro bristled out like the spines on a porcupine. Some pointed out at the entrance for the bay of San Juan while others pointed over the waves of the Atlantic. The rough surf of the Atlantic buffered into the rocky coast of Puerto Rico. Up against the old fortress walls of the Spanish settlement. San Juan was one of the oldest cities in the Caribbean. It was more European than any other. The wealth of the New World and the Spanish Conquest had passed through its harbor on its way back to Spain. It was a vibrant and wealthy colony. The perfect place for ‘The Woman’.

The Mary Morstan sailed into the harbor as the soldiers on the walls of ‘El Morro’ watched. The Morstan was flying the Irish flag. A silver stringed gold harp on a field of blue. An Irish ship would be more welcome in the Spanish port than an English ship.

Just in case, John aimed the ship to southern side of the harbor. Less opportunity for their real nationality and profession to be learned by the soldiers on the docks. Sherlock stood on the deck as he watched John load a box of French champaign into the smaller boat.

“Why are you bring that?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s a bribe.” John said as he waved for the boat to be lowered.

“A bribe? Money won’t suffice?” Sherlock asked.

“For Irene? No, she is more interest in sensual compensation and being tied down and whipped in not my idea of a good time.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John wondering if the man was joking. John turned back to Barr who was standing on the deck.

“Just like last time we were here. Half of the crew can leave now and the other half tomorrow night. I want someone on duty at all time. And if the Scotland shows up in the harbor, fire a cannon. We should be able to get back to the Morstan quicker that way.”

Barr looked around at the men getting into the two other long boats. “Are you sure, Captain. Maybe we should keep most of the men on board.”

“It’s San Juan. I’d have a mutiny if I didn’t let lose in the brothels.” John winked at Barr.

“I don’t like the Spanish, Captain. I don’t trust them.”

“As long as we act like any other commercial ship, they have no reason to question us.” John said. “We’ll be gone in two days and the men will be more at ease.”

John climbed over the railing and down the rope ladder into the boat. Sherlock followed him.

“Won’t the Spanish soldiers know you are a pirate?” Sherlock asked.

“San Juan may be a Spanish port, but it still allows ships from other nations in here. They do not discriminate against anyone who is willing to bring gold into the city. They just don’t ask how that gold was obtained.”

The men rolled the boat to the docks and John and his crew got out. James Sholto carried the crate of champaign as he followed John up the streets. San Juan was colorful and loud. The natives spoke rapidly - waving their hands and expressing themselves floridly. The streets were narrow and houses were built side-by-side. Many sharing the same thatched roofs.

Women called out to the sailors, enticing them into their establishments. Members of the crew veered off and into the various public houses that line either side of the street. John, Sherlock, and James kept walking towards the end of the street. There was a two-story building with a broad porch and covered balcony that wrapped around it. Blood red Bougainvillea grew up the trellis and under the eaves.

John walked up the steps of the porch and knocked on the door. An attractive woman in a simple black broadcloth dress answered the door.

“Captain Watson, we never expected to see you again.” She smiled at John and stepped back to allow him to enter the house.

Sherlock glanced around the first floor. The house was elegant and clean. There was no loud music or boisterous conversations. Not what Sherlock expected in a brothel. The floors were highly polished wood stained black. The walls were whitewashed plaster. In each room, a small black child pulled cords that cause large fans against the ceiling to move. The gentle movement of air was refreshing and helped cool the rooms. The furniture was covered in French jacquard fabric. There were silk pillows and wool rugs. It looked more like the home of successful businessman instead of a brothel.

Four women were sitting in the front room as the men entered. Two were dressed in pristine white undergarments – corsets, shifts, and pantalettes. The other two were dressed as men. White shirts with fanciful stock ties, waistcoats, breeches, and white stockings. Each of them had a braided leather whip coiled on their right hip.

“Ladies,” John nodded to women who slowly stood up and started to walk seductively around John and Sherlock.

Sherlock watched as the women seemed to be considering him as a prize horse for sale.

“John, is this really necessary?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course it is.” A woman’s voice called out from an open door on the far side of the room. “John Hamish Watson. I thought you said you weren’t one to enjoy my pleasures.”

“No, Miss Adler, it’s not my cup of tea.” John said with a slight nod to his head.

“Pity, I can just imagine how long it would take me to break down that stoic expression of yours.” The woman stepped forward and smiled knowingly.

Sherlock’s eyes moved rapidly up and down her body. She was a beautiful woman, there was no question about that. Her hair was jet black and pulled up into a swirl of curls into an ivory comb. Her eyes were a dark shade of green. Clear and intelligent. And her painted lips were bright red against her pale skin.

She wore a black lace gown that did not hide the trim lines of her body or the roundness of her breasts. Her fingers were long and graceful. The envy of any concert pianist. She moved like a cat. Confident and smooth. Well-practiced to entice any man who watched her. In her hand, she carried a leather riding crop.

“The Woman, I presume.” Sherlock said. His voice deep and round.

Irene Adler’s eyes shifted from John to Sherlock. She stepped closer as the other women backed away.

“And you are?” she asked.

“No one important,” John said. “I’ve brought you something special.”

Irene smiled. She lifted the crop and dragged the tongue of it down Sherlock’s cheek.

“How thoughtful of you, John. Is he a new pet of yours? Does he like to . . . beg?” She watched as the tongue of the crop slid down Sherlock’s neck and across his chest.

“I never beg.” Sherlock said.

John cleared his throat. “He’s not the gift. This is.” He waved James forward.

Irene kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock for several more seconds before she glanced over to the crate of champaign.

“So this is a business transaction and not a personal engagement.” Irene stepped forward and looked at the label on the crate. “Open it up. Not that I don’t trust you, Captain Watson, but I’ve learned not to trust any man.”

James set the crate down and took out his dagger. He wedged it under the top board and pried it off. Irene reached in and pushed the packing aside. She pulled out a bottle and smiled at the label.

“For this you get to ask a question.” She waved her hand and a servant came in and took the bottle and the crate away.

“One question, there are twelve bottles in there.” John glared.

“One question or you can let me have this one for a couple of hours.” She gestured towards Sherlock with the riding crop.

“No,” John snapped.

“I’m obviously not your type. Why would want to waste time on me?” Sherlock said.

Irene’s eyes sparkled with delight. “And you think you know what my type is?”

“You are obviously a sapphist.”

The room became very quiet. The women glanced rapidly at each other. John watched as Irene’s grip tightened on the crop. He thought she was going to hit Sherlock with it.

“Irene. Please.” He stepped between the two of them.

It took Irene several seconds to regain control. “What makes you think I prefer the pleasure of women over men?”

“I’m not saying you don’t indulge men who have the need to be beaten and humiliated for physical gratification but you prefer the female lovers over male lovers.” Sherlock said. “You have been performing before us as soon as you walked in. Putting on a show for our benefit. But not just for us. You have been performing for these other ladies. Why would you want to do that? If they were simply employees, you wouldn’t care but you do care. Therefore they are more than employees. They are your lovers. And the fact that they are here for your beck and call every day and every night you prefer them to a full-time male lover. Your male lovers are actually clients and not someone who you have feelings for. Ergo, you are a sapphist.”

Irene stared intently at Sherlock. Then broke out in laughter. “John, whoever he is, keep him and collar him. He would make a wonderful pet.”

John growled softly. “It’s not like that between the two of us. He is just . . . someone I pick up.” 

“Oh really?” She smiled at John then turned back to Sherlock. “You’ve have a chance to deduce me, let me deduce you. When I walked into a room, I expect to be looked at in one of two ways. Desire or embarrassment. You looked at me like I was something you would study. A specimen. Quite off putting by the way. When I flirted with John, you became defensive. You didn’t like the fact we were flirting. It wasn’t me who you were jealous for therefore it had to be the captain. And finally, when it appeared I was about to strike those stunning cheekbones with my whip, John leapt to your defense. You needed to show off for him. Prove you were more worthy of his attention than me. You want John Watson, whoever you are. And I’m sure the good captain wouldn’t be too adverse to taking you too.”

John felt his face suddenly warm. “Irene, that’s not what we’re here for. And I don’t bugger my crew.”

“We both know that’s not true either, John.” She glanced over at James.

Sherlock glanced at John for a moment. He could see John’s anger boiling under the surface. John was embarrassed as well as angry. Sherlock turned back to Irene. “Tell me what you know about the kidnapping a man named Sherlock Holmes.”

To both men’s surprise, Irene actually looked frightened by the question before she could pull her mask back on.

“Are you him?” She asked.

“Is that important to you giving us the answer?” Sherlock asked.

“If you are Sherlock Holmes, then you should know your life is in great danger.”

“Why?” John asked.

“I told you, one question. You asked it and I answered it. Now leave.” Irene said turning away from the men and flouncing down on the couch.

“You are frightened.” Sherlock said.

“Never.” She replied, but there was timbre to her voice that belied her bravado.

“Tell us who is after him.” John stepped forward threateningly.

Suddenly, the two women dressed in men’s clothing produced pistols. They pointed them at Sherlock and John.

“I’ve asked you to leave. Now my friends are telling you to leave.”

“Alright, Irene. Until next time.” John slowly backed up .

“John, darling. Just like there wasn’t a first time, there won’t be a next time. As you said. ‘ _you’re not my cup of tea.’_ And if anyone asks, you never heard a word from me.”

John turned and walked out of house with Sherlock and James on his heels. Angerly, John marched down the street. He walked into the first tavern he came to. Sherlock followed him.

“John, why are we here?”

Angrily, John answered, “I’m here to get a leg over.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Why?! Because I bloody want to!”

“John, we need to discover who wants to kidnap me and why.” Sherlock said.

“No, we don’t. We don’t need to do anything . . . together.” John said as he quickly scanned the room.

It was a crowded tavern and whorehouse. The main room had numerous tables with dozens of men drinking and laughing. At the back of the room was a staircase that led up to an open balcony that surround the room and allowed a view of the floor. There were obvious rooms off the balcony where the prostitutes got down to business. Several women were leaning over the railing of the balcony. They dirty blouses barely able to contain their bosoms within. A large brutish black man stood at the foot of the stairs, preventing anyone from climbing the stairs without permission from the owner. 

“Together? Are you worried about what she implied?” Sherlock asked.

“Implied? She down right accused me of using you for sex.” John growled. He glanced around to see if anyone overheard them.

Sherlock looked confused. “Is that a bad thing?”

John’s mouth fell open. He stood stunned, staring at Sherlock. “You can’t mean that.”

“I don’t mean anything, John. I’m asking a question. Is it a bad thing for you and me to have sex?”

A wench walked by carrying several tankards of beer. John grabbed one out of her hands and quickly drank the entire contents while his eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock. When he was done drinking, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sherlock, I’m going to find me a wench and spend the night upstairs. You can do whatever you want, but don’t do it around me.”

“John, I need your assistance.”

John pulled a woman from the lap of man sitting at the table. The man started to complain but saw the anger in John’s eyes and sat back down. John gave the woman a deep kiss. She easily wrapped her arms around the blonde’s neck and returned the kiss.

“Hello, darling,” she chortled as the kiss ended. “Half a crown for a bed upstairs.”

John placed a coin in her hand and her smiled broadened. “For that, you get all night with me and someone else.” She turned and looked at Sherlock. “This bloke?”

Confused, Sherlock glanced at her while John pushed her towards the stairs.

“No,” John growled.

Sherlock watched as John and woman climbed the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs. He glanced around the room. Several men from the Morstan were there but they were either drinking or engaging company for the night.

Frustrated, Sherlock turned and left the brothel and decide to return to ‘The Woman.’ Maybe he could induce her to tell him what he wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sapphist is a early term for lesbian. It comes from the name of the ancient Greek poet Sappho from the island of Lesbos. It was the term used for lesbians up to World War I.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always welcomed and enjoyed.


End file.
